A stirring of rust colored leaves rise ethereal with clay dust, as the girl child dances under the hazy sun of the afternoon heat.
Not yet an Angel gold dipped in sin and prayer; her tinkling laughter is matched by the cicada drone that beats with hypnotic fervor.
He rocks back and forth, ceremoniously on the old porch, with solemn and careful watching.
The evening damp, strangles and descends, the smoke clouded mist from the old man’s pipe; as a whippoorwill hurriedly cuts through the last lazy moment of heat from the celestial terrace.
He waits in the gathering dark for her to come in as she moves steadfast and barefoot toward the tall blistered wood porch.
Laced with secrets and smiling, she will lay with thought dreams bathed clean, in star shine.
Her secrets, like fine webs, carefully woven and promising not to break; silently move out upon the aether; soft as silk, the thoughts press down upon her lover.