Heat from the sun on my thighs,
Tingling skin not yet been exposed.
Move limbs into the shade before the burn,
So tired, can’t move at all, ten more minutes.
Skylarks chirruping so high I cannot see them,
The leaves move in whispers in the poplar.
A hum close to me, closer still. A flaunting bee.
The squawk of a distant pheasant,
The blue skies are vast when unpunctured by cloud,
A glass of water warming steadily,
If I roll over I can read. But sometimes doing nothing,
Just being, just listening, is so cathartic and beautiful.