Outside

Outside, all is grey. It is a strange fall day, too warm to be Autumn, but too grey for Summer. Green leaves are still on the trees. The wind is nonexistent. Our half-dead hanging plant sways, its pink flowers translucent in the morning light amidst the brown branches of its less hearty cousin in the same pot, but the trees are almost motionless. No squirrels or cats creep about; no birds cluck or chatter or sing. The neighbors are all abed or at work. Even the roar of the nearby trains seems to be silenced, and when it does come is muted, remote. Only just now is a pipe at work, somewhere in our building, briefly. The outside might as well be in. Walls seem built around the world, the doors locked, the owners away. Dust cloths cover the houses and the sunlight shines dull and grey through the dirty windows.