This oddly warm morning, trying so hard to blow gray from the sun. The tension of the muddy All, helping herd clouds away too with true grit, their invisible claws scrape sky so can dry.
Fstop solar twirl on trees no one really sees.
Gray is winning but never can kill our Sol. Only thing wins is wind, for that which moves knows Air, not mired in the mirror there, typecast shadowcast from up above.