Turning

Image from Pixabay

Spring microfiction.

The rain leaves the sky heavy grey. Sunlight inches through, casting the yellow bricks of the houses an unreal pink. You slip out into the garden, barefoot, and I follow in shoes, watching the sodden earth spatter your toes. We look up, gauging the light against our skin — only the whisper of spring. I slip my arms under yours, press my hands against your chest and find the flap of a bird’s wings trying to break free.