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I walked down the street to my favourite restaurant, the Greek Garden, for dinner tonight. On the way home I took the long detour through the park.
The air was heavy, still and honeyed. I caught a familiar fragrance like cloves and glanced aside to see wild phlox crowded in the undergrowth. I wandered from the path and went to stand in their midst, inhaling deeply. I bent closer to smell a head. The scent was sweet and floral. It is better from afar; an exotic spice.
I strolled further. The phlox were everywhere, drenching the riverside in pale purple and whitish-pink. Black willows raised glaucous clouds against the sunset. The park was dull with deep evening shade, lightly breathing, whispering with birds, the air saturated with scent, as if the whole woods had just finished making love.
And indeed it had. Summer solstice, the longest day of the year, has just passed. As I turned off the bicycle path into Kingsmill Avenue, the sun was still winking down, sinking to rest high in the northwest. It had just finished impregnating the trees with next spring's birth of buds.
Their boughs are heavy and sweet with chlorophyll. The dark maples hang sleepy and languid. They are a soaked lover on a tumbled bed. The sky sighs softly, and all the world is well.
The air was heavy, still and honeyed. I caught a familiar fragrance like cloves and glanced aside to see wild phlox crowded in the undergrowth. I wandered from the path and went to stand in their midst, inhaling deeply. I bent closer to smell a head. The scent was sweet and floral. It is better from afar; an exotic spice.
I strolled further. The phlox were everywhere, drenching the riverside in pale purple and whitish-pink. Black willows raised glaucous clouds against the sunset. The park was dull with deep evening shade, lightly breathing, whispering with birds, the air saturated with scent, as if the whole woods had just finished making love.
And indeed it had. Summer solstice, the longest day of the year, has just passed. As I turned off the bicycle path into Kingsmill Avenue, the sun was still winking down, sinking to rest high in the northwest. It had just finished impregnating the trees with next spring's birth of buds.
Their boughs are heavy and sweet with chlorophyll. The dark maples hang sleepy and languid. They are a soaked lover on a tumbled bed. The sky sighs softly, and all the world is well.
