Superfluidity

Non stop, sometimes fine rain, heavier than drizzle, sometimes hurtling down like sweets bursting from a bag; but always dark, grey and sapping.  The river, which had receded, settled down back into the confines of its banks, is unrecognisable now, as the fields have disappeared underneath it.  It makes me feel lifeless, despite having had a mostly stimulating day at work, when I step out to come home, the energy dissipates.
Luckily, I made some notes on getting to my desk about the drive in this morning, and isn't it stupid how it is the only time I feel I have wholly to myself in which to think, and yet I live alone.  The computer doesn't demand I browse blogs, play games.  My cat is just as happy curled up whether I am there or not, I am (almost) superfluous at times to him.  And thinking of this word cycles me back to the superfluidity (ob dass ein Wort ist, hab' ich keine Ahnung) of the wet world outside.  So, without any further meandering, here is today's stone...

Silver birches, trunks like wet newspaper rise out of the gloom at the roadside.
They guide, they delineate the morning commute.