It's an old football injury; that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

The sky is getting lower and lower. It's going to rain. Puts me in mind of the poem that says something like

The sky is low, the clouds are mean,
A traveling flake of snow,
Across a rut or through the barn
Debates if it will go.

A narrow wind complains all day
How someone treated him,
Nature, like us, is sometimes caught
Without her diadem.

I wish I could remember the title of the poem. And the author I'm pretty sure is Emily Dickinson. Some stuff sticks in memory; some doesn't.