It smells green. Not cut grass, but growth. I walk around the corner and meet the afternoon filtered through the cornfield below. Across the dirt road, a small barn sits atop the valley view. Framed by trees and hills, the shades of gray, blue, white clouds shift overhead. The moon discloses itself and the heat of the day evaporates. We sit. Breathing in the valley, the sky and each other.
When the moon is overhead but before the fireflies, we walk up the path towards dinner, and I see quiet wonders. A forest road to the left, a stone wall enclosing the back of the house, a pasture reaching up, midway a lone chair, trees linked by a clothesline.
Today, I find a small room in the corner and write. A chair and a pillow that fits the small of my back are my writing partners. The light joins us through the window. Outside the ferns, oak, and blue sky are filtered by shifting clouds.
Bird calls, wind chimes, and the swoosh of the fronds as the breeze moves through her fingers.
I take in what I can while I can. The solitude and space. And green.
Thank you, Two Writing Teachers for Slice of Life Tuesdays. Read more slices here.