Overcast Weather Quotes

In February, the overcast sky isn’t gloomy so much as neutral and vague. It’s a significant factor in the common experience of depression among the locals. The snow crunches under your boots and clings to your trousers, to the cuffs, and once you’re inside, the snow clings to you psyche, and eventually you have to go to the doctor. The past soaks into you in this weather because the present is missing almost entirely.

Beware of fair-weather friends. They come to you when the sky is crystal clear and disappear when the same sky is overcast with dark clouds.

It was an overcast day, but the cloudy weather did not detract from the signs of spring that were evident all around them. It was the second week in March, and the official start of the season was just a couple of weeks away. The magnolia trees had already bloomed, and tulips, daffodils, and wildflowers were shooting up all around the convent's gardens.

Even as a boy Jack had loved the smell of the ground softening in the thaw and coming back to life. Not this spring. A damp, moldy dreariness, something like loneliness, had settled over the homestead. At first Jack did not know its source. Maybe it was only his own mood. Perhaps it was the spring weather, with overcast skies and freezing rain that soaked through the cabin walls. Mabel, too, seemed beset by a morose restlessness.

Either woe or well-being, sometimes I have a craving to be engulfed. This morning (in the country), the weather is mild, overcast. I am suffering (from some incident). The notion of suicide occurs to me…Another day, in the rain, we’re waiting for the boat at the lake; from happiness, this time, the same outburst of annihilation sweeps through me.

Either woe or well-being, sometimes I have a craving to be engulfed. This morning (in the country), the weather is mild, overcast. I am suffering (from some incident). The notion of suicide occurs to me…Another day, in the rain, we’re waiting for the boat at the lake; from happiness, this time, the same outburst of annihilation sweeps through me.

It was one of those days that I didn’t mind going to school because the weather was so pretty. The sky was overcast with clouds, and the air felt like a warm bath. I don’t think I ever felt that clean before.

It was one of those days that I didn’t mind going to school because the weather was so pretty. The sky was overcast with clouds, and the air felt like a warm bath. I don’t think I ever felt that clean before. When I got home, I had to mow the lawn for my allowance, and I didn’t mind one bit. I just listened to the music, and breathed in the day, and remembered things. Things like walking around the neighborhood and looking at the houses and the lawns and the colorful trees and having that be enough.

London is actually a beautiful place when the weather's good; the mood is lighter and everybody's smiling. But for the other 350 days a year, it's miserable. You're standing there waiting for the bus in the rain or you're waiting for a train on a platform and it's freezing. Always a persistent drizzle - or if it's not drizzling, it's overcast and cold.

It was eleven forty-five, overcast, fourteen degrees above zero, and damp. Cold for any month of the year, even January. The forecast called for a major snowstorm. They said it was moving in from Chicago. Ten to fifteen inches by nightfall. It was not the best day to be standing outside, but the congressman from Arizona was oblivious to the weather.

What do we mean by collapsing the quantum state of the brain? Like the atom threatening Schrodinger's cat, the entire brain of an observer can be described by a quantum state that represents all of the various possibilities of all of its material constituents. That brain state evolves deterministically until a conscious observation occurs. Just before an observation, both the observed quantum system (let's stick with the radioactive atom) and the brain that observes it exists as a profusion of possible states. Think of each possible state as a branch on a tree. Each branch corresponds to some possible state of knowledge, or course of action. But when an observation registers in the mind of the observer, the branches are brutally pruned: only the branches compatible with the observer's experience remain. If, say, the observation is that the sun is shining, then the associated physical event is the updating of the brain's representation of the weather. Branches corresponding to "the sky is overcast" are chopped off. An increase in knowledge is accompanied by an associated reduction of the quantum state of the brain. And with that, the quantum brain changes too.

While British Bomber Command believed in leveling entire cities, the Americans considered themselves “precision bombers,” a term that implied attacks exclusively against military targets out of revulsion at indiscriminately killing civilians. But because the skies of central Europe were chronically overcast, half of Eighth Air Force’s bomb tonnage was dropped using “blind bombing” radar techniques; often, as few as one out of ten bombs fell within half a mile of an obscured target. Even when conditions were ideal for bombardiers—this was the case in roughly one sortie of seven—less than a third of all bombs detonated within a thousand feet of the aiming point. The term “precision bombing,” Spaatz conceded, was intended “in a relative, not a literal sense.” Bad weather also caused frequent diversions to secondary targets such as rail yards, a practice that amounted to emptying bomb bays over city centers.

A club of sunshine whacked me right between the eyes. Like to laid me out. Gah! An ill omen for sure. These bright days are never kind. Everybody I ran into would be just like the weather: warm and sunny. Argh! I was in the mood for low overcast and light drizzle, maybe with a frigid south wind. I peeled layers of fried skin off my eyeballs, took another look. Where there is life there is hope.

My wife and I can't recall how many years we've been married, but we'll never forget our first backpacking trip together. We'd just begun dating and I was her trail-hardened outdoorsman, a knight in shining Cordura, the guy who could handle any wilderness emergency. She was my...well, let's just say I was bent on making a good impression. This was her first backpacking experience and I wanted to have many more with her as my hiking partner. I'd checked and double-checked everything--trail conditions, equipment, weather forecast. I even bought a new stove for the occasion. We set off under overcast skies with packs loaded and spirits high. There was precipitation in the forecast, but it was November and too early for snow, I assured her. (Did I mention that we were just a few miles south of Mount Washington, home to the worst, most unpredictable weather in the Northeast?) As we climbed the few thousand feet up a granite ridge, the trail steadily steepened and we strained a bit under our loads. On top, a gentle breeze pushed a fluffy, light snowfall. The flakes were big and chunky, the kind you chase with your mouth open. Certainly no threat, I told her matter-of-factly. After a few miles, the winds picked up and the snowflakes thickened into a swirling soup. The trail all but dissolved into a wall of white, so I pulled out my compass to locate the three-sided shelter that was to be our base for the night. Eventually we found it, tucked alongside a gurgling freshet. The winds were roaring no, so I pitched our tent inside the shelter for added protection. It was a tight fit, with the tent door only two feet from the log end-wall, but at least we were out of the snowy gale. To ward off the cold and warm my fair belle, I pulled my glittering stove from its pouch, primed it, and confidently christened the burner with a match. She was awestruck by my backwoods wizardry. Color me smug and far too confident. That's when I noticed it: what appeared to be water streaming down the side of the stove. My new cooker's white-gas fuel was bathing the stove base. It was also drenching the tent floor between us and the doorway--the doorway that was zipped tightly shut. A headline flashed through my mind: "Brainless Hikers Toasted in White Mountains." The stove burst into flames that ran up the tent wall. I grabbed a wet sock, clutched the stove base with one hand, and unzipped the tent door with the other. I heaved the hissing fireball through the opening, assuming that was the end of the episode, only to hear a thud as it hit the shelter wall before bouncing back inside to melt some more nylon. My now fairly unimpressed belle grabbed a pack towel and doused the inferno. She breathed a huge sigh of relief, while I swallowed a pound of three of pride. We went on to have a thoroughly disastrous outing. The weather pounded us into submission. A full day of storm later with no letup in sight, we decided to hike out. Fortunately, that slippery, slithery descent down a snowed-up, iced-over trail was merely the end of our first backpacking trip together and not our relationship. --John Viehman

The weather was expected to continue as sunny or overcast with occasional showers or dry spells, some wind and some no wind at all. It was possible that there might be a light frost in the morning, or it could turn in places to snow or fog, or into a spectacularly fine sunrise.

Fall. Rain. Wind. Depressing! And it was only going to get worse. Chilly, overcast weather was forecast for the rest of November. Then again, October had been beautiful. The autumn leaves glowing red, yellow, and orange; glorious sunshine; blue skies; and a wonderful crispness in the air. But unfortunately those days were gone. It was the first week in November; dead leaves swirled around in the wind, rain clouds hung low over Gothenburg, and the contours of the city dissolved in the damp mist.

It was the end of March and, even though the weather hadn't warmed noticeably at this elevation, the winter buds had begun to swell on the oaks, giving them the quality of knots in fine lace against the gray overcast.

Either woe or well-being, sometimes I have a craving to be engulfed. This morning (in the country), the weather is mild, overcast. I am suffering (from some incident). The notion of suicide occurs to me, pure of any resentment (not blackmailing anyone); an insipid notion; it alters nothing ("breaks" nothing), matches the color (the silence, the desolation) of this morning. Another day, in the rain, we're waiting for the boat at the lake; from happiness, this time, the same outburst of annihilation sweeps through me. This is how it happens sometimes, misery or joy engulfs me, without any particular tumult ensuing, nor any pathos: I am dissolved, not dismembered; I fall, I flow, I melt. Such thoughts--grazed, touched, tests (the way you test the water with your foot)--can recur. Nothing solemn about them. This is exactly what gentleness is.

It is never certain for her that the wolves will answer each Wednesday. I wonder for a moment why they do. Surely they know that these are just a bunch of humans trying to speak wolf. Surely they smell us, a group of sixty people cloaked in lotions, colognes, insecticides, and deodorant - announcing our odiferous presence to an animal whose world is ordered by scent - standing in the woods a mere few hundred yards away. Surely they heard our engines as we arrived. Surely they could hear that our pitch is off, that we are an imitation. Yet they accept this and play along. Why? Wolves, it turns out, will howl to a variety of stimuli, including the sirens of emergency responder vehicles. In the late 1960s, when researchers discovered that the red wolf was nose-diving into extinction, they played electronic sirens in southeastern Texas coastal marshes and plains to elicit howls from wild canids. From the howls, they made probable identifications of red wolves and possible hybrids. Coyote vocalizations often have a series of broken yips and barns and emanate at a comparatively higher frequency, whereas red wolves will howl at lower frequencies that start “deep and mournful” but may break off into yapping like a coyote, according to a report authored in 1972 by two trappers, Glynn Riley and Roy McBride, who were employed by the federal government. Early surveyors noted, too, that the red wolves were more likely to howl in good weather and less likely to respond in rainy or overcast weather. Confined to their facility, perhaps the red wolves of Sandy Ridge howl to humans because it gives them a way to communicate with living beings outside their fence. Who knows: maybe they are simply telling us to bugger off and go away. Or, as frightened as they are of seeing a human, perhaps howling to a group of them on a dark night is more palatable since they do not have to look at us or be gawked at in turn. Perhaps howling is a way of reaching out on their own terms, in their own language, through which they can proclaim their space and their place on the land - their way of saying, “Even though I’m in here, behind this fence, I own this place.” Or maybe they just want to remind us that this land had been theirs for millennia before we invaded and claimed it. In the dark of night, I fantasize that their howls are calling out: “All this was ours. This was ours.

The Pharisees and Sadducees came to Jesus and tested him by asking him to show them a sign from heaven.  He replied, “When evening comes, you say, ‘It will be fair weather, for the sky is red,’ and in the morning, ‘Today it will be stormy for the sky is red and overcast.’  You know how to interpret the appearance of the sky, but you cannot interpret the signs of the times.” Matthew 16:1-3

There is something truly extraordinary about a tropically-designed city when viewed in overcast light. The neon paints that swarm the buildings maintain their luminosity even in the thin fog, and their voices crackle like those of sleepless children—for even in elderly weather, everything about them is eerily youthful.

The Pharisees and Sadducees came to Jesus and tested him by asking him to show them a sign from heaven. He replied, “When evening comes, you say, ‘It will be fair weather, for the sky is red,’ and in the morning, ‘Today it will be stormy, for the sky is red and overcast.’ You know how to interpret the appearance of the sky, but you cannot interpret the signs of the times.” (Matthew 16:1-3)

THE "SON" ALWAYS SHINES We speak of the weather everyday. Is it going to be cloudy and overcast, or will the sunshine provide us warmth on this new day? We all love the days when the "sun" shines brightly. Not only does the sun brighten our day, it serves as a beacon of fulfillment and lasting optimism in this constantly changing world. The "SUN" which, by the way is 93 million miles away from earth, is all well and good for our positive outlooks, but it cannot bring us as much joy and contentment as we seriously lack in our lives. The "sun" does invigorate our bodies, but does nothing to stimulate our souls. There is only one "SON" that can revitalize our souls and make us truly contented. That's God's "Son", Jesus Christ. With the "Son" of God in our lives, nothing is impossible. With Jesus in our hearts, His powerful loves radiates through our souls and is magnified through our thoughts, words and deeds. His brightness is shone through in every aspect of our lives. With Jesus, we sense a new beginning each and every day. He can fill all voids we allow Him to fill. Christ is eager and willing to enter our hearts. He will begin to shine his everlasting light of love, hope and grace throughout our future discipleship in His word. Jesus can turn any sadness into gladness, turn doom and despair into hope and reassurance, and more importantly; hate into love. His abundant gifts of mercy and love can transform any lonely den of darkness into a palace of brightly lit possibilities. Ask Jesus to enter your life and transform it into a splendid garden where hope and love spring eternal. The next time we gaze out the window and see clouds forming, let us not forget that the "Son" always shines. As long as we believe and carry Him in our hearts and minds, no day will be gloomy and downcast. God's "Son" shines in our lives everyday! __In Christian Praise, Much

Nice weather, huh,” Roslyn said, looking around. Dell glanced toward the gray overcast sky. A cold mist was falling, and the road was a muddy mess. He looked at a grinning Roslyn. “If you like depressing weather, then yes, it’s a beautiful morning.” “So you’re a hot, humid, sunny-kind-of-day guy?” She skirted a muddy puddle before keeping in step with him. “Guess so.” Dell shrugged, a half grin on his face. “I guess you’re a gloomy, soggy, cold-kind-of-day girl.” “Guess so.” She repeated his answer, then laughed. “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with these kinds of days every once in a while. It’s good cuddling weather with a good book or a television show. Plus, it’s hoodie weather, and I love hoodies.