Sprawled out on the trampoline with a sky full of stars hanging like a mobile. The Big Dipper is straight ahead, scooping up a ladle of the darkness. I’ve got a cat just as black on my belly, massaging his claws into my jacket with bliss. The clouds are moving rather quickly so my light-punctured canvas is barely visible for a moment through opaque smears. It’s not long after, the whole span is a blanket of beaming heather as the clouds pull over the cover.
Bare black walnut branches are arching over me like haunted fingers casting a spell. Cast away; I’m mesmerized as it is. I have needed this mild night outside. I love creation, and we’ve been overdue a date night (even if the cats play third wheel).
In the wind the lingering dead leaves sound like a gentle rain, or a whispering stream. Wild to think the wind is considered welcome or unwelcome simply by way of degree. It blows, no matter the season. I hear the neighbors wind chimes kick up every now and again, and I’m reminded how wind makes music. And with that whimsical thought I take my seat on the tree swing, and hum with the wind inside of me.
I can smell the cedar boards in the shed next to me. I smell everything, and it’s quite a distraction. People with keen senses live with a long leash. I find I’m oftentimes drawn here and there, led away by what I smell, or hear. Some girls go gaga when they see shiny things; I get wide-eyed over textures. Sometimes I think I can feel with my eyes. That’s not good enough though, so I’m a toucher, too. This is good news for the cats who are still circling my swinging feet, vying for more affection.
The rope is squeaking a steady rhythm and I’m feeling the cold suggest I head in for warmth. The kitchen light is the only sign of life through the linen curtain. My loves are tucked in just like the clouds did the stars earlier. I’ll go ahead and call it, since it’s nearly midnight. I whisper goodnight moon and kitties, and sink through soft earth until I’m on perspiring concrete. I’m already giddy for more nights outside.
SHE GILDS THE LILY: a lavish waste of words and wonder 