Satan's Smell: Petrichor, Mulch, and Zinfandel

Taste: no sugar peanut butter; pistachios
Sight: The clean-cut missionary boys in their black suits and crisp white button-up shirts proselytizing to the giant arm-waving black man who walks down Broadway are blocked when the walk sign blinks red. The homeless man carries on into traffic as they stop, stare stiffly — How can you save the world from Satan if you can't cross the street?; sunrise orange Zinfandel
Sound: "You Are My Sunshine," shy singing softly in a restaurant; "Outsiders."
Touch: sodden two cubic feet bags of mulch hefted in the chill rain
Smell: petrichor, scent of rain; breath of death; microwaved apples
Extra: bookish memory: When I was in fourth grade my violin teacher gave me the battered, tattered copy of Watership Down by Richard Adams off her bookshelf at the end of a lesson. I read it that weekend on a camping trip by flashlight.
Grateful for: Yoga Circle Studio

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Shel Graves' Sensorium

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