The clouds were softening when they walked,
marshaling tufts of hazy purple
gathering the night against the wind
that had picked up
and broken the river of its still, glazed stupor.
Above a treeline effulgent against the hand of June
the sun, reluctant but resigned to its fate,
flamed and fanned out, casting her skin,
he thought, in bronze.
She laughed, tucked in the crook of his arm
as his words spilled into the space that would never be a void.
Not with them,
these two who could invent a hundred stories
for the gaggles of geese binging their way across the shoreline
heads ducking to the grass
in the orchestrated monotony of necessity
that was their feeding ritual,
never knowing the tales of imperial ego, cursed flirtations and wild buffoonery
being woven above their heads.
He pulled her closer, amused by the curious stares turned benign
as his gaze fused with a stranger’s and then another’s and another’s,
this one marveling with sanctifying indulgence
at their leisurely entwined gait
as if such lofty approval were needed
for this state of the union
that bore no political intent.
For she was no pointed social commentary
and he no bold experiment barreling toward surprised success or futility.
No, as they strolled Kelly Drive, all seriousness and heady laughter,
the peached creaminess of his arm
curled around her bare caramel shoulders
with evening beginning its quiet descent into intimacy
they were simply light dancing into light
disarming to those oblivious to the sultry symphony
of a summer wind shaking love songs
gently from the trees.