Synesthesian Sage

Dreams never have music in them, do they?
The park bench dream fills my head though, fills my ears, fills my muscle and bone with sounds.
No music; just insect purr.
I'm barefoot walking one of the two clear hardpan tracks of the dirt road.

The park bench is black curved metal.
Ten feet from the road through tall grass there's the smooth bench warm in the sun.
No music; just raven wings.
Vibrations pulse, press, beat from life teeming in the sky in the trees in the grass in the ground.

Dreams carry smells (memory joggers) in them.
Sage is the smell is the sound of this dream, the sage I've crushed under my bare feet, the sage my feet swing over while I'm on the park bench in the sun, waiting.
It's the music.
Music carries the body - have you ever noticed? - draws the breath, holds the breath, makes the heart beat in cacophonous riotous totally irreverent rythyms, changes your mood.

He sits by me; the birds sound louder.
His hand in mine is a sliding fingertip stroke on steel guitar strings, but he says nothing.
The air is deafening.
We couldn't talk if we wanted to over the din and the sage.