—there are so many of them.

Floating, zooming past – no chance for acknowledgment.

Half-formed sentences, broken apart by others. Talking over each other. Crashing. Clashing.

A veil separates us. A cloak covering the constant cacophony.

Then – clarity beckons. I slowly reach out, squinting through the diaphanous shroud.

A distraction! The phone rings, the dishwasher dings.

And they are hidden away once more.

A half-unformed thought
The middle of a story
A vivid mem’ry

(Slips away)

From one of the rooms, Feist could be heard singing:

Well it’s time to begin as the summer sets in–

The dishwasher whirred merrily, dinnerware acleanse. Another newfangled necessity in this old-fangled estate. The glasses tittered, echoing the debilitating hilarity of the evening celebrations.

They tried to stay in from the cold and the wind
You play your part, painting in a new start–

The dust – strangely little for a place of its size and infrequent occupation – was beginning to slowly settle. Dancing feet, large and small, had given it a long-overdue stir.

June, July and August said: it’s probably hard to plan ahead…

Backlit, the light from the seventeenth-century lamps casting a glow out the window. Two silhouettes against the garden grass, freshly watered by the downpour.

June, July, and August said: it’s better to bask in each other’s…

Deep in quiet conversation, so as not to wake anyone else.

What were they talking about? Of life, of love, of themselves, of feelings, of reality, thought, and time, of change and chance, of the sheep sleeping and the witches dancing, of self and sense, and of being?

February, April said: half of the year, we’ll never be friends–

They moved.

The light went out.

February, April said: don’t be fooled by the summer again.