Sometimes giggling -
the intimacy which two lovers once shared.
Whistling in the pines,
singing Lou Reed,
hoping for her around the next corner.
Racing with the setting sun,
the sun that recklessly paints the evening sky,
the sun that shows up occasionally through the silhouettes of pine trunks,
and pine needles filtering the last of light.
And he keeps going,
eyes dancing amidst the natural splendour,
ears alert for those whispers of the forest,
breath growing deeper, making the heart a tangible organ,
and the saliva along the jawline tasting like Mercury.
Running down the slope, now.
A sweeping glance across the landscape
describing an arc as if tracing a rainbow;
a rewarding sight indeed:
The dense greens fade
into lighter shades of green of the hill,
and then the eyes dive into a sea of dark gray of the sky,
which turns sweeter with every minute of arc of observation -
regal purple, into orange, into pink, finally merging into the blue,
the last blue in the sky for this day.
At one end of the horizon sits the moon,
silently stalking the diminishing sun at the other end.
The sun, like a regal figure, fades away in all its splendour;
leaving nothing but the shivers for the moon;
the night of the full moon, only a day or two away.
Too bad that he would leave without the scents,
of pine needles that clothe the forest bed on a warmer season,
and the full moon,
and the features of naked mountain slopes
lit in that white light.
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