All that could be seen was ankle; your ankle, in fact. My face was against your bare calf, warmed in the golden glow of early summer evensong atop the old elm-crowned hillock, your fingers tangled in my hair. Narrowed of focus by my heavy eyelids, dreamy for ebb and flow of cicada drones — narrowed so I could drink in that ankle of yours, the sight of which being mead that made my head dizzy drunk and the linger of a kiss honey sweet.
Someone hummed a tuneless song and I never did discover if it was you or me. But neither of us moved in the fading day’s heat. Not wanting to break the thralling spell, I just lay there, feeling the pulse of your blood against my cheek as I bathed in the vision of your ankle and the massage of your fingers in my hair.
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