Basil Crows

The sky is cloudy and heavy with grey. Silver greys, pewter greys, white greys. Rain is forthcoming but just needs a bit more heating. The creek is full from the thunderstorm last night, the waters quick and muddy in this shallow path. The grass is covered in more then dew, it like the blades are slicked in wetness, ready for more. The dogs are wet from the knees down and in the case of the Muffins, from the chest down. My small basil plants are getting bigger, greener, their leaves pungent and sharp when I touch them. The smell sticks to my fingers and masks the vanilla sweet of my coffee and lotion. Sweet Basilnilla.

Today is the perfect day for The Counting Crows, music that calls up lingering, silver moonlight, memories of clouds and starry skies, of murmured words and thoughts. Music that calls me back years and years ago, memories that I knew where permanently marked in my heart when they were unfolding. Those memories were made with flannel, kisses, and knowledge of my one Man's love. Sweet Sweet August and Everything After.

The day and the music make me languid and prompt those deep liquidly smooth stretches, arms above the head, neck arched, toes pointed, and muscle loose. I feel content, happiness settles on me like my favorite blanket, my mind is focused, my thoughts ready to move forward steady. This is a perfect feeling.