Bike ride on Tadpole Lane, starlings darting over ripe fields, sultry August air.
Dusk wrapping its cool arms around my shoulders.
Ripe beechnut, shell-petals split open, arching back from the black seed.
Luminous mycelium filaments tendrilling through soil, decaying roots, and rock.
The smell of shade in early June.
The way all the water ripples when each raindrop lands in a pool.
Dragonfly legs delicately holding a stalk.
Your hand reaching for my hand, lips close to my ear.
Raindrops coursing down the window between the drops that rest in stillness
no grasping, no forcing, no hurry, no holding back.
The pace of the rain quickens like your breath, then slows, softens,
undulating rhythms in sync with mystery.
Intimacy.
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