The clouds hang in cold suspension over the landscape, their hazy palour seeping into the mountains and rooftops, painting the scene a dull grey. Some birds call out to each other in questioning intervals while the tap-tap-tapping of the rain hastens into a conversation of its own.
I lose consciousness of the low electrical rumble of the fridge in my apartment as I seep into the landscape and the twittering and the tap-tap-tapping.
The birds are calling, chatting more confidently now – they are not deterred by sombre airs. A turtledove contentedly announces his position on the neighbour’s roof to anyone listening.
There’s a soft and earnest beauty in the greyness, isn’t there? A longing, a kind of breath-held stillness that is let out in a long, gentle sigh. It leads us to reach out for comfort – I pour mine into a well-endeared cup. My hands embrace its warm body as I bring the steaming comfort to my lips. And the grey afternoon itself becomes a little warmer.