Muted light barely uncovers the letters on the keyboard as I type. The house is silent except for the soft strum of guitars accompanied by the faint falsesetto of Duncan Shiek flowing through the still air.
Looking out the glass of the sliding door reveals a grey sky of thick clouds mixing perfectly the slate roof and the dull white stuccoed walls of the house beneath it. Open windows whisper that the owners there, but no light of life shines out, only a heavy curtain of flat black to fill the space.
There is no movement outside. No wind to make branches sway and toss leaves in the air. There are no birds in the air, nor squirrels dashing to and fro. All is still.
Days like these are common enough up north, but they are a true rarity here in Florida where the porches are built extra wide and you dare not go outside without sunglasses.
The stark contrast alone of this steel day is enough to make one stop and notice; but then again, this is late January and it is winter.