Long ago, beneath frail summer trees, high up by the penetrating sun, we sat. Talking about anything, really. The lake. The joggers. The walkers. The people just strolling, almost aimlessly, along.
And then those long stretches of silence. Sleeping in the grass. In the deep shadows that roll out to long, stately and old, mansions. All with deep vines that twist and creep along, hiding I think something inside of them.
As the road forks off,
And the tall branches break off –
Falling as we sleep.