Winter Prosapio

The gray days we’ve had lately have been a topper on everything else going on. When they were talking about dust from the Sahara, I admit, I’d glamorized it. I imagined brilliant sunrises and sunsets, skies that looked like swirly copper dunes, maybe a few camel shaped clouds making their way from one horizon to another.

Instead we’ve gotten that color you get when you wash out kids’ watercolor brushes, a strange, flat gray-on-gray. I wonder, when I look up into that sky with annoyance, if we’ve evolved to need clear blue skies to feel hopeful — if the flow of colors from yellows and oranges of morning sunrises to deep purples of evening sunsets are what rejuvenate us, pulling us through tough days.

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