The ceiling above is a uniform grey, blank and unyielding. Sluggish light bleeds through the windows, impotent and weak. The listless breeze brushes limp fingers through hanging branches of pine. The promise of rain, unfulfilled, brings a bittersweet twilight to the day. The crickets sing an evening song. Their time is misplaced lost under the weight of impermeable, unwavering cloud. The sleepy earth sighs a cynic’s sigh, purses her mouth and turns away from the leaden lackluster sky.