It is that kind of day, cast over, clouds of navy and grey blocking any of the sun’s rays. I suppose I should be glad, nature’s watering day, yet the ground squelches its soggy belch. My sandaled feet drown in puddles (no one said I was smart that way). Even the butterflies and birds refuse to fly. Today should be a holiday, a volunteered Saturday. I’d curl into a book with coffee or tea in hand. Hibernate away the day. Drizzle honey on a warm piece of toast or toast to my honey as we slip into another 100 words.