Perfect Day

Green-mottled sunlight warms my cheek and paints her skin in eddying umbras. I lay, one hand in hers and the other on my book, its various chapters heralded by chimes of ice ringing in my lemonade and tracked by the whispers of the trees, whose murmurings rise and fall like states of consciousness, here buzzing blithely, there lulled into lovely languor, until, humming, I am pulled to my feet. And we dance.