I like a sunny day as much as the next guy (assuming the next guy likes a sunny day exactly as much as me, which, unless cloning technology is further along than I think, is improbable). Yesterday was not a sunny day. It was gray. The sky was granite with clouds the color of iron. Every parking lot I saw was wet with intermittent rain and shimmered in spots from the oil all parking lots collect. It’s winter, so the trees are all bare branches now, and almost all of the grass is the color of old rust. It sounds like a depressing sort of day. I loved it. The whole day was restful, like reading in bed with a couple of lamps for light. The cloud covered sky meant I never ended up squinting into the sun. Every time it rained it made everything smell, briefly, freshly washed; and look polished. Parking lots full of oil slick rainbows isn’t something you see on a sunny day either. Bare limbs make clean lines, uncluttered and simple. A beautiful day can sweep me up, fill me with energy, make me feel alive; but the gray day yesterday just allowed a moment to rest.
I don’t really want to wax too philosophical. I’m not really trying to make any meaningful point. I just wanted to describe my gray day.