the holes, like pocky scars in the dirt, filled with rain and formed miniature black pools beside the road. fog hung low behind the trees, somberly inching along the shore and up through the fields, a sad gray form leading the rest of the slow procession of muted flat tones.
the trees, heavy and bent as if burdened with the weight of widow's weeds, dripped with dark dampness.
the sun remained hidden.
the road was empty. there were no cars or bicycles; not one person out there that misty morning on wolf neck.
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