Skippers and skylarks

A world of summer stretches out beyond the house; the meadows turned to grasslands. Spring’s green carpet has become summer’s sea, the walked-on sward now a haze of hay to wade through, knee deep. It’s a wispy, wind-kissed landscape, all airy stems and plumes translucent in the evening sun.

We walk, plucking at the tall grasses as we go, disturbing basking skippers.

The trill and warble of a skylark overhead heralds our entry into an altogether more expansive realm. Thoughts become clear; talk becomes easy. Time, like the vast grasses, is augmented.

Dark butterflies flit amongst the grass. Burnet moths balance atop the slender stems, their black wings glistening with hues of midnight blue.

Beside us, time runs in threads; our footsteps transient against the timeless song of the skylark; notes that sound as though they’ve been sung forever and which run on into eternity. I close my eyes and imagine the slow beating of a butterfly’s wings, resonating in deep pulses, before looking up to search for the source of the skylark’s song.

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