Too Damp To Be Wet

A briefly wrung-out sky is blotched with clammy clouds. A humid air clings to my chest. Damp squirrels hang limply from dripping branches. Desultory birdsong mops but not much. I yearn for the cold slap of sea-spray, chill cheeks and fresh lips not this damp-dive-walking through a moist miasma. Maybe the day will shake itself free of its mope? Perhaps this drizzle will tip over into a cresting surf of sunlight, or anything that smacks of a rolling ocean that can dry-out, rinse and clean.