It's the kind of day when the streetlights may stay lit all day long. Rain fell for much of the night and now, although it's stopped, the clouds are crouched so low that earth, air, and water seem to have become one.
There are no hard edges in the landscape. The line between field and sky is a smudged gradation of green to grey, and dove-soft fingers of mist twine themselves through the branches of the trees.
It's high tide and the waters of the channels in the estuary are antique mirrors, fashioned from sheets of cold grey metal, polished smooth and burnished to a soft reflective sheen.
In the trees along the river, eagles sit hunched on high branches, their feathers ruffled against the weather.
In the bay, sailboats bob at the dock, a welter of vertical lines against the horizontal planes of water and mist. Behind them, two large freighters rest at anchor, invisible except for their deck lights, glowing soft yellow through the fog.
Gulls are lined along the railings of the dock, gossiping with one another like a group of old men in front of a hardware store. They've all perched facing the water except for one lone rebel who sits facing the road, flapping his wings and displacing those on either side; the class clown, demanding attention of his peers.
There is a slight breeze stirring, speaking of another storm moving our way, carrying with it another great bounty of silvery rain. Several storms wait offshore bringing the prospect of at least a few more soft, dark winter days this week.
Although passersby may lament the loss of blue sky, we know to welcome the coming downpour as part of the music of the seasons: The drumming of the rain gives rise to the murmur and then the roar of our rivers as, replenished, they rush from mountain to lake to shore, shouting through canyons and singing over stones on their way.
Trout shelter in lakes and deep river pools. Small salmon make their way toward the ocean. Birds swoop and wheel over the waters, feeding on both.
Trees rise up from river banks, their branches outstretched to catch the falling rain, their roots reaching deep within the soil in search of water that makes its way underground.
It is an endless, endlessly beautiful, dance and I am blessed to watch it for a while.
Whatever the weather where you are, fierce cold or bright sun, falling rain or dry winds, I hope that your day rings some measure of beauty for you to savour. Have a joyful day.