On the Midsummer

On the longest day of the year, periwinkle clouds become obstructions. Thick, rain-laden, and encumbered with purpose they struggle northeast. Obstructions. Sheltering the sun or hiding it, no one can be sure. No one but the clouds themselves, and as you so cleverly pointed out, clouds are not sentient. I am ever so grateful for your input.

Below us, the frogs lurk in muddy shadows, dreaming aloud. Their trills are meditative, lulling them into their fantasies. The birds in the high elms on the bank of the river muse in a world all their own. We sit together in the willow tree watching the coming indigo in a world all our own. The cool northern wind does battle with the millions of mosquitoes, and the few brave warriors who are able to worm through the defenses and inflict any damage are promptly dispatched.

The metallic scent of rain-to-be makes you smile. I kiss your cheek, softly, softly.

You ask me what.

I say oh nothing.

The evening air holds mysteries, enigmas, secrets. It rustles the leaves, the grass, the water, our hair and whispers the tales it has heard.

A warmth is swelling in my chest, growing, building, forcing its way past my lips-- I love you.

Heartbeat racing like the rabbits below-- go ahead, go ahead.

I love you, too.

I smile how you smile when you catch the rain smell. You lean over, you kiss my forehead.

A squirrel laughs. We jump.

See I say.

What you ask. You ask what often.

I shake my head. Never mind.

On the distant green horizon, indigo flashes silver. You pull me closer. We watch the sky with anticipation, excitement.

A rich rumble-- a lion's roar, a chariot race, Zeus snoring-- I shiver in delight.

It strikes. Thick, fat drops bounce off of every surface. The sweet hush amplifies the amphibians, still lost in their meditations. I become lost in meditations of my own, soothed by the cool droplets running down my cheeks, off my nose, the tips of my hair, caught in my eyelashes. I am loathe to brush them away. Their perfect spherical shape enchants me and the green of the willow and the green of your eyes is reflected through them.

Serene I say.

Serene you repeat.

I smile. The warmth rises again. I bite it back. Serene, Tranquil.

This rumble is not gentle. This rumble is the crack of a whip, the snap of breaking wood. This rumble is fear.

Exhilarating.

The obstructions clear, the crickets' revelries replace the birds' musings, and you and I are left. You and I are left in the soaking, dripping, pooling wet to gaze upon the inky black with its one silver coin.

On the shortest night of the year, indigo clouds ceased being obstructions-- set the scene, draw the curtain, begin act one.

Down below, we smile, for this is the best midsummer night's dream.

21-22/06/2013