zird is the word (lizardek) wrote,
zird is the word

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The air is full of flying, floating things. If it were winter, I'd suspect snow but since it's a beautiful, hot, late-spring day, a closer look tells me most of it is dandelion fluff or maybe milkweed puffs. They move with seeming purpose, skimming sideways, caught on every waft of air. Some ARE actually moving under their own power—insects: butterflies, gnats, tiny beetles, spider younglings, the small flying lives that populate the world, mostly unseen until the sun illuminates their journey.

The air shines silver on the tops of the green hedges. Trees, even the lawn shimmers under the force of the light. Once in a while a horse whickers from across the ditch. I can hear the chuckling gurgle of a tractor and the barking of some small, distant dog. The neighbor's black cat slinks along the hedge and crouches beneath the thornbush, regarding me with an enigmatic golden gaze. No amount of blandishments can lure him nearer.

The lilacs wave lavender and languid in the breeze and a blackbird trills its liquid warble from the pines. Every now and then a breeze suddenly catches and spins the parasol around and the heat of the sun blasts full upon my face. Sitting in the shade is a perfect state; I have no desire for anything more.

I'm tempted to lever back the chair to a reclining position and doze the rest of the day away. Everything leans and flutters to the left as a gust of wind arrives. The musical jingle of the ice cream truck suddenly rings out. All the summer sounds: a sunny symphony.

The parasol spins again and I am momentarily blinded; eyelids going red, then black in the heat and the light.

Next week is a crazy one. The funeral Tuesday, book group on Thursday, a work party Friday, and a friend's wedding on Saturday. I haven't read the book for book group yet; I haven't even managed to acquire a copy. I feel a great deal of reluctance to go to any of those things...I'd rather be here, as I am now, sitting outside on the deck, in the warmth, listening to the horses nicker and the wood pigeons cooing and the wind in the leaves.

Tags: wonderfulworld


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