saturated monday

beeping sound, dream on of a squeaking wheel, a machine needs oiling.
A clock needs silencing. Bedside lamp on, direct it at the floor to keep it dim , dim flat light. No need to wake others.
Three past five, warm water, wash hair, brush the teeth.
The clock has stopped yet again.
The smartpen, that blogpen, is left in work.
careless.

On the way down the stairs listen to the rain outside, dripping. Take the umbrella.
It is warm and wet
Birdsong.

There are many of the usual morning walkers under way in the sopping town, the two turkish women,  for example. The weirs on the river are loud, it is swollen, the current is making the surface brought as it flows quickly into the now opened flood gates.
It has rained all weekend, and the water in the river is brown with the stirred-up mud.

The smoker at the station, in his short-sleeved shirt, greets, as does Anastasia, who has the coffee ready without much comment, she just wishes a nice day, is all.

Read on the train, the missing pen makes it possible.
A miserable wet railway station gives way to saturated green saturated wet countryside.