Today was bleak. The temperature hovered near 55 degrees all day, and dipped down to 40 with the sunset. Sunset is a terrible word to define it- today was windy, and the recent lack of rain gave the breeze an abundance of fine dust to toss about like some mockery of snow. The sky was grey and hazy, and faded down into a greyish hue of tan as it dropped to meet the horizon. The sun didn't set so much as slowly disappear into the miasma. I never knew I would describe a sunset as regretful, but that's how it seemed to me today. Before the sun was ready to go, the wind grabbed him and dragged him down, stretching tentacles of dust across his face. At the last, just before he finally submitted, he was pale and grey like the world underneath him- more like the moon, and not at all brilliant, glorious, and full of color as a sunset should be.
If the sky was dreary and grim today, the city was worse. The divorce of color from the sky betrayed even the piles of rubble of their former character. Nothing moved among the gaunt shells of buildings, save a few tatters of some refuse lifted by the breeze. Not even the prowling packs of dogs ventured out of whatever holes they call home. As I stood and looked about, a gust caught the ash from my cigarette and tossed it away. The fire quickly dimmed, and a few more specks of grey drifted down to meet Iraq.