I was lying in a hammock stretched between two thick trees at the end of a long dirt road. Someone had strung the thing up a few weeks ago and damn if it didn’t make a fine place to while away an afternoon with a good book. The maple’s broad leaves did their best to collect all the summer sun they could, yet a few rays managed through to dance amongst the fallen.

The end of the road was a place we called the Farmhouse, but there was no farmhouse anymore, just an old foundation and three gnarly apple trees whispering their history to anyone who cared to listen. I liked to listen. Beyond the apples was a stretch of split rail whose posts and crossbeams were barely fence-like anymore, a whittled boundary between the homestead and the old hayfield where cicadas and crickets buzzed and a humid breeze licked the tops of unruly grasses.  

Cindy, a friend of mine came strolling by, this dirt road so popular for that sort of thing.

“Out for a walk?” I asked.

“Almost too hot for a walk, but yes.” She said. “You’ve got the right idea, mind if I join you?”

“Not at all.” I said, sliding over to make some room.

Our weight drawn toward the middle—our skin touched. I put my arm around her and kicked the ground to start a gentle swing.