Sunday Fray

Stressful morning but now a calm starts.  And in the calm I remember why I write, and why the characters of wine’s world interest me as they do.  The sippers and the glasses, even washing them a certain way so no spots stubbornly stick.  It’s all a wheel, a cumulonimbus of intentions and revised thesis.

Pinot from last night still circling, as it wants to of course.  And I note, note, more note.

And as a writer with a trying A.M., more coffee’s not only considered but definitively decreed.  So I start to pack and rush to bux–  Where’s my wallet, I search and panic and the same morning still with me.