a warm day with fluttering wings swimming in sunlit dust. playing in the tall hot grass, diving into the chilled slippery water, summer struggles brief and alive in our chests. 
living in a graveyard and nurturing the scent of wet poppies. snow melts before it hits the ground, dissipating into little more than dew. bees shimmer like black flecks of ash, stick to the tongue and to the fur, and swarm sticky sweet among the old stones and battered crosses. a masquerade of prancing insects and showy peafowl gathers like the throng of buzzing honey workers, like the pale twisting snowflakes. when they disperse there's only the hollow grove and a patient twilight. 
the reflection in the pond seems dreamy sweet. tufts of dandelion weave sleepy-eyed over the water. little blue flowers shake their compact heads in the breeze, sway in time with the tall grass and thin branches which web themselves along the canopy. there's a gathering on top of the rocks at the playground. the bracken black moss feels cool, almost slick. tiny unlit candles dot the stones like mushroom monks, waiting for sparks and absolution. 
smells like damp earth, sulfur, and sour flesh, pickled with pearls and a lady's slim fingers. they nicker and wander to keep warm against the fog and the coming cold night, feel the chill passing between their branch-thin ribs. the twin gods shine a silent yellow in the dark, like a beacon amongst the trees, a lighthouse of etched eyeless stone. everywhere sounds the flapping of great weathered wings against the dull blinking hum of the evening. 
