The sky is mottled greys from dirty white to pewter... the streets glisten; the moss seems to be slowly creeping over every surface it can reach. It's thickest on the tree limbs hanging over San Ramon Creek, but even the asphalt parking lots are slowly submitting to a thin blanket of green, as unwilling to start the week as the schoolchildren being ushered off by their mothers.
The raindrops can't be felt, yet they dance invisible to the eye upon the surface of the swimming pool; only the fog will enjoy the pool today.
If there's any sun to be had, it won't be around these parts. The top of the hill is cloaked with a covering of impenetrable fog. Commuters scurry with a resigned air that it will turn to rain soon enough... and quite likely before they arrive to work.
The creek is fasting moving and silent. The decorative fountains splash more loudly in front of brooding buildings up and down the street.
The crackle of bacon from the kitchen foretells that soon enough, it will be time for us to return home.
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