saturation

Bright, warm or even hot; a buzzing, humming day. Waking you already hear the flowers outside and smell the birds. It is such a loud day, so saturated that you are overstimulated into synæsthesia before even opening your eyes.

Pity the black-clad crows, overdressed for the heat and too somber for the noonday colors. They do not make a sound all day. In fact, you do not recall having seen even one of them. You imagine them skulking somewhere in a subterranean bar drinking cold beer, telling off-color jokes and complaining about the weather.

Meanwhile you try to navigate in the swirl of color and sound, hue and cry, you think, and the pun is just another area of overlap between things that on a cooler, dimmer day would be separate and distinct. The sweet smell of blooming things pervades every pollen-prickly breath you draw. The branches on the other side of the glass are full of darting hummingbirds a-flash in the sunlight. You are thankful you cannot hear their tiny bird voices or understand their gossipy piping.