It is a gray, misty, drizzly morning during a gray time of year. The dogs are quiet. They don’t like rain. They will romp joyously in snow, but rain makes them hunker down and curl up. They obviously intend to sleep until the sun comes out.
Tomorrow. That should be a sunny day again and everything, everyone, will be brighter.
It is already December. The march to winter grinds along, though so far, it has been merely chilly. And dry. So far, so good.