With clouds as varied as the moon's surface, it would seem that there is texture and complexity in the sky's recent, preferred monochrome. Any nuances in the light or the cloud are invisible.
There's another residential street, somewhat hilly. The well-kept front yards are punctuated with all manner of resplendent and repugnant Christmas - sorry, holiday - decorations. There is no snow yet. Like a few lost birds, dark, dead leaves occasionally blow in their dusty way across the grey sky, landing amongst the inflatable Christmas Disney characters, the reindeer, the strands of lights which will illuminate homes when darkness falls somewhere between 4:45 and 5:30. It depends on the day, of course, but we haven't been treated to a sunset in a while, so most of the day feels like the middle of the night anyway.
The grey sky is the background to these houses, to a lone figure walking, hair and coat blown about. Those that live in these houses let their dogs roam, bark at this person. Occasionally, it crosses the street, quickly, to avoid these angry snarls and aggression. It moves parallel to more homes, mostly still with aluminum siding, suburban gardens and windows, heavily-lidded with curtains or standard issue blinds. No one else is on the streets. No one else is walking. No one else sees her.
The body in movement would like to stand out by not standing out. But how does one not stand out when one has fallen through the socially prescribed cracks? Again?