The way it's looking outside is ideal for the moment. It's fallen for this moment, as this plays.
It hears Cross Record playing somewhere in the background. The huge, cumbersome gears that move the grayest of clouds into an area and over a span set themselves into motion because they can hear Emily Cross singing from somewhere and they are coming to her. They're going to spread these clouds out to find her and bring her back, or they'll just clutter around her, not disturbing her, letting her finish.
The sky looks like an avalanche, suspended above us, taunting. It's glued into place, either reluctant or stunned. When it lets loose, it will smother us with ease.
Cross, who had been living in Chicago and recently moved to Austin, Texas, writes songs as if they were empty houses full of echoes, full of the stuff of a bunch of living people.
She allows us to come into them and gather so much, even if we take nothing. We gaze at those beds whose morning warmth faded quickly after the covers had been pulled back. We see the dishes and cups in the sink. The smell of a meal or two past hangs in the air as the diagonal anchors of spider webs do in doorways. We are smitten with these undertones, with the ways that they make us shiver in that desirable autumn way.