We cycled through rolling fields of golden wheat back to the hidden house.
The wheat turned yellow as far as the eye could see.
The sky was wide and trackless, and
the sun shone on the stone of the little commune house, standing deep in the woods, as we approached.
The sultry sounds of yesterday evening’s party long evaporated,
where glasses had been filled to the brim,
where we’d eaten from shared plates filled with meats and bread,
as children wove around our legs,
with the murmur of voices, laughter, singing and dancing escaping into the air,
and the heavy sounds of jazz music spun us into the moonlit night as the darkened sky harked to the owls.
Today, we lay on our backs, in the grass, facing the sky.
Not another soul around us.
Not another sound except for the babbling brook and the cry of the larks.
Idling in the heat of the late afternoon sun.
Dragon flies glimmering in the hazy light.
Not a thought in our heads.
The leaves rustled in the ruffle of the woods and wildflowers danced around us.
As you spoke to me in French, through the hush of the gentle breeze, Oberon and Titania whispered the forest’s secrets back to us.
The whole world ceased to exist but for that which immediately surrounded us.
We were the last people standing in paradise as Athena departed and Cupid’s bow landed.
And as dusk began its descent, the spokes of the florid twilight reached out to us as we bid adieu to our secret hideaway.