the annual telling of the Colors

It always sneaks up on me and pounces. The trees are splashing pollen everywhere. The first crop of squirrels are out on the roads being stupid, and my indoor kitties are losing their minds staring out the window at the impudence of birds picking snacks off the screens.

I need to cut these out and glue them to the lids of the dye powder tubs. Looking at the names, when I'm in the middle of mixing never seems to work well. What will cool or warm which. Or not. 

I've ordered some blues: Electric, Sapphire, Robins Egg, Intense, Plum, Hyacinth and Cotton Candy for fun. 

That should do it.

I have to DO SOMETHING. 

Summer will be on us like a starving panther on a hog. (That's a southern thing). The great Pool Clean out is underway. Hope the infrastructure and plumbing give us one more year. 

I want to sit under the tent on the dye deck and listen to jazz while I sweat and invent some new colors. Hope for an afternoon thundershower to get things blessed and rinsed. Cherries, plums, gingersnaps and ginger ale on hand. Somebody might be grilling. Not I. 

I want to sit in the yard after dusk and watch the fireflies courting. Have a touch of herb to keep the skeeters high. Come in and put The Madison on. It's quiet remarkable, for TV. 

Why is it that none of these things seem right or fair as long as that bloated, orange cancer is killing our country? It's a comfort to know I'm not the only one working roots for a coup.