I remember a lazy Sunday afternoon, the sun, its futile attempt to shine and the birds seeking shelter. I remember the skies in their brood, charcoal grey, they crawled slowly above, casting their shadows like giants over the hills. I remember, The summer shower that fell from the vapors, how it poured on the old cottage. Each drop,tick and tock in their off tone rhythm, how they shattered themselves on the rooftops, the trombone groans of thunder followed soon after. I looked to the landscapes painted a dark green with the honey covered fields as far as the eye could see, unhindered by the gloom of the rain. I remember, it was humid, though a shy wind would run for the prairies, hopscotch pass sun spots on the ground, childlike in its charm. I remember, because it grazed my shoulder in passing, nudging me in its direction. “Look..” it must’ve whispered as my eyes drifted. The tides rushed my heart, the wind in its gusto cast my gaze in her direction. I dared not look away so as not to miss a single moment. She laid in her hammock, overlooking the horizon, as if the world sat before her, still, her personal canvas. She stared intently, The intrigue in her gaze, her timid shoulders, a straw hat tilted from her scalp, hanging from the withered strings. The pastures, back and forth at a glance, shamelessly waving hello in their candor. Long legs folded beneath her. I stood still, struck by her composure, her floral dyed sun dress pressed against her skin. I imagined she must’ve been caught in the rain. Her sandals soaked, loose from her feet. Her hair drenched, yet she seemed unbothered. “Might I say Hello?” I tried to convince myself. Perhaps offer a shirt to dry herself? My attention captured, I approached her. With steps few and far between, what seemed like a short eternity, I found myself beside her. Still, I could not muster the words. She looked my way and smiled so effortlessly, my soul in spring bloom, I mirror back a grin. I hadn’t enough courage to spit out a single sentence. So, I stood, mute, restrained by her grace. She continued to look out to the meadows and I, the same. Often, I would glance in her direction attempting to carve her features in my thoughts, that I may never forget this moment. Because nothing was as beautiful nor as colorful, nothing as full or as vivid, nothing as real and yet surreal, as her. We stood in silence, an instant with few words, engraved in my heart still. I often wonder, if she remembers me, If she often looks out to the grasslands and reminisces about our hushed summer waltz, how we danced in silence to a faint orchestra with nothing but the brushes and bows of the wind, fewer cymbals than the crash of the rain over the rooftop of an old cottage.