The flood of rain persists, and a slick wet gel clings to the leaves of the verdant canopy, creating a greasy shine, reflecting the silver-gray pall of the cloak overhead. Darkly quiet, the soggy verdant canopy interrupts the cacophony of sluicing vehicles slogging their commute on the nearby highways. The zephyr tranquil, precipitation has become vertical, a translucent sheer, draped beyond the bay window, gossamer before the wood. Lonely droplets of silvery water drip sadly from trembling leaves, falling reluctantly towards the saturated loam. The storm, an ashen shroud o’er the peninsula, hazzards to hang on for hours and days to come.