Overcast

[rejectomorph]

I watched clouds gather yesterday evening, and all night the stars have been concealed. Damp steeps a scent from decaying leaves, until the chill night is saturated with the odor of woods in decline. All the insects have at last fallen silent. Very late, a faint play of light here and there on the marbled eastern sky reveals the vain attempts the waning moon makes to show itself. But the clouds will allow no more than this ghost of light to pass. Whatever water the clouds contain they also hoard. No moonlight, no rain, but only this smell of damp trees and soil and leaf mold. I feel as though I'm waiting for dirt to be tossed into a grave.