Explore "Winter" by Dallas Lore Sharp on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The December rain was falling down, down, down, as if the drops were lead instead of water. The December sky, if you could call it sky, had settled down, down, down, as if it too were of lead, and were being propped up only by the tops of the stiff bare trees.
A green stick in the fireplace behind me sizzled and sputtered and blew its small steam whistles to warn me away from the window, -- from the sight of the naked trees, and the cold, thick fog upon the meadow, and the blur of the pine woods beyond, and the rain falling down, down, down.