That Kind of Day

This has been a crotchety old-man
type of day, foul tempered and
gloomy, threatening rain and
making good on the warning.  The
sky has done its duty to the atmospheric
mood, darkly pouting, shuffling a
battalion of armour-bruised clouds
sending deeply entrenched ill humour
over the innocent landscape. A
bitterly trenchant wind ruffles
tree tops moaning in hapless misery.
No birds sing.  Creatures of the
forest slink about in silent, morose
dudgeon.  The damp and the dark
has exorcised death-blue fungi
to litter the forest floor.  Trees exude
unpleasant succubi.  Truculent blame
squats gnomelike and shadowy
on grizzled old stumps, grimacing,
haunting the embattled woods.