Golden Hour

Here.

Here the breeze cools my sun-warmed body, skips across skin like stones on the surface of water.

Here.

Here smells like a spice, an herb, a cinnamon patchouli blend that floats in swirls and wafts.

Here.

Here is chokeberries picked by the deft hands of masked, furry bandits, the pits the only remnants left along the trail.

Here.

Here is the squish of an over ripened crabapple underfoot, the resultant squelch and fermented perfume.

There.

The squelch and perfume reminds me of there and then, climbing the apple trees to shake ‘em, yellow jackets staking their claim if I didn’t get there first.

Here.

Here is wispy pink clouds on darkened blue skies, a bird cry I don’t recognize, but so much I do. Oh, so familiar while so new.