Dreaming about having nowhere to be, the delicious precursors of summer surrounding our senses, until we get hungry for more traditional forms of sustenance.
You’re lying on your back on a knit blanket, holding your book in a position that shields your eyes from the sun’s glare. It’s too early in the spring to be this warm, you grumbled earlier, but I can tell you’re savoring the enjoyment of it anyways.
“Ready to go?” You yawn, stretching like a cat, and it feels so good it makes the hairs on your arms and legs stand up.
A beat of silence, and then a soft sound of agreement on your right. Packing up our little picnic spread is quick work, followed by a sleepy jaunt through the tall grass by the pond. We survey the surface of the water as we stroll, pointing out lily pads and blue herons, and chatting about the possibility of pasta for dinner.
why do i have to take care of this idiot (me) every single day cant she do anything on her own
Laying on our stomachs in the tall grass with our feet up behind us, listening to Sligo River Blues and dreaming about where we’ve been and where we’re going.
Your whole life laid out in front of you, marked by ants traversing tiny hills like points on a map.
