I waded through heavy air on way to the post office that morning.
I took the scenic route, which was only worth taking on a day like that.
The heat was a welcome stranger for the time of year,
but even the most unusual weather feels primordial after a day or two,
and glistening brows had already started praying for restoration.
The sun saw me intermittently as the leaves overhead drew back with the soft breeze,
casting shadows which made the pathway below ripple like the surface of a lake.
The woodland was painted with flowers whose names I will probably never know,
and there was an unspoken amity between the wildlife and I.
For miles each way we were alone,
and I believed this wholeheartedly,
until, in the corner of my eye,
perched on a byway,
I saw an easel.