There's a winter storm warning, and daybreak brings little light. The black branches of my twin maples are frosted with precise, narrow strips of white icing. Scout snow flakes conduct dizzying recognizance in wet air.
The earth's atmosphere is contracted with that last catching suck of air before a gigantic sneeze.
As for me, I'm filled with a sense of adventure, dangerous and sexy. I have no idea what the day holds. My only obligation is to return library books.
I'll spend some of the day at the piano, wrestling with phrygian and sus chords, tritones, and voicings. Maybe I'll break out the art supplies as well.
Everything is frozen possibility. Potential hanging in the air like icy mist.
Negative ions in the air are giving positive charge to my libido too.
Art, jazz, poetry, and sex.
What else were Saturdays made for?
Passion, beauty, and love, folks--24 hours at a time...
image: noyereve
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