I woke up with butterscotch on my mind; a hankering for something sweet, smooth, light to soothe my aching throat perhaps.
The day is well on its way. Cirrus clouds are stretched across the sky, unmoving, in expectation.
Something is new. It floats in the air like three notes of an unsung melody; it toys with consciousness without staying long enough to become thought; like the echo of a passing shadow.
Doves are quarreling for territory. Far away barks climb up the hill along with noise of city clutter. Random sounds, all familiar, none the silence of Flauzins, Merlin’s land, intrude and jar my soul a little.
The Med, wearing the palest shade of blue, is pensive as well, reflecting haze and clouds, hanging on to this moment, to eternity.
Perhaps a storm is coming…
Yes, butterscotch would be nice; a tingle on my lips, a riot on my tongue, balm in my throat, bliss among butterflies before I face the day.