Sunday Morning Coming Down

There's something in the air this morning, brewing — weather-wise, yes, but maybe something else: charged.¹ It's misty gray, cool, but trending warmer, blending eddies. Something off to the left is insistently hooting, really wanting to make its point. The ship horns on the Mississippi, to the right, a mile-and-a-half away, are clearly audible. As is that complex backdrop of early-morning city sounds. The little brown birds² are busy in the now mostly barren willow. Will it clear? Will it drizzle?  Hard to say.³ (But I think the former. As I write this, the clouds are burning of, and the temperature's rising.) Something's going on. Maybe it's just Sunday morning coming down.⁴

1 This sense of "charged" might just be that crackling electrical wire working its way subliminally into my brain.

2 I have vague ornithological inclinations, but I can't quite manage to concern myself with the distinctions among that  flitty sub-genre: Little Brown Birds (LBBs), the ones that are everywhere, all having slightly varying combinations of brown and gray. Maybe someday…^a

a Ooh! I just saw my woodpecker buddy! Now that's a variety I recognize. (And ooh! Look at me get all fancy with my sub-footnote syntax. I've been reading David Foster Wallace again. Talk about a guy with complex footnotes.)

3 The weather report would tell me, but for the moment, I'm enjoying my uncertainty.

4 I've had that song stuck in my head recently. Though the my brain doesn't have the lyrics quite right and keeps on, in some background process, rearranging combinations of words until the rhymes incrementally fall into place.