sunset, interrupted

The formerly tranquil November rains have suddenly gone cold; the skies have darkened to a nearly perpetual charcoal hue. Even the fog slithers low to the earth like an eerie, bone-tired specter with neither the will to carry on nor, in fact, any actual bones. The squirrels have ceased their scampering. The songbirds have silenced their singing. The only reliable sign of life is a persistent jay who taps his beak against our window, staring in at our home's occupants as if begging for shelter or accusing us of somehow summoning this foul new reality. Let's face it: it's record-breaking bleak out there.

Which is why we had no other choice.

When Friday promised a dreary day without the dreary rain, we put our week-long holiday-prep vacation on hold to escape. For a few hours in the afternoon, the sound of the seagulls and the briny scent of the fresh ocean air proved a pleasant palliative for us all as we walked the paved paths and grassy lawns of one of our favorite parks and skimmed the boulder-lined perimeter of the bay Gray clouds blanketed the sky like an infinite quilt, meager hints of sunlight occasionally peeking through a tiny tear in the fabric. It was barely 4:30 when the sun began to set, and, while the overcast conditions obscured the dramatic display of bold colors we've witnessed in the past, there was an understated beauty in the water's golden shimmer and the muted pastel shades that swept over the islands in the distance.

Today, once more, the rain is bucketing down, the world outside our windows reverting to its dark and ominous state. But that's exactly why we had to do what we had to do. It's impossible to say how long it might be before that elusive sun smiles upon us again, even if only through intermittent rips in a seam. So, should it come, should it cast light and hope into any part of the dire days ahead, we'll lift our faces to the heavens and carpe that diem.