The sky is a massive tarpaulin of grey draped low near the ground on a wintery day; an overcast garment of gloom, and skeletal branches of ponderous trees despondently creak in the querulous breeze, as if they were guarding a tomb.
As drizzle descends through the bone chilling air, and falls on the land that lies sullen and bare, the prospect is heavy and grim. The undulant meadows are sodden and wet, with frigid inclemency bleakly beset, when nature afflicts on a whim.
