In July, my heart is quiet. I opened the windows to watch the tall grass. Without the wind, the scene before me looked like a postcard; the sunlight was just a shadow over the stillness of the world, and even the creek made no noise, the water passing through the rocks without a sound. I lay against the flowers and think of spring, of you. If I close my eyes and let the heat melt against me, I can almost pretend that you’re here; that the space above the picnic cloth has shifted under your weight and the silence finally breaks with your laughter.
