she walked through the olive trees, the sun touched the lips of the mountains ahead. she knew dusk would soon wear into night. she heard her footsteps crushing the dried brush at her feet. the end of summer, soon her softspoken world would come to an end. she felt the wind rush through the trees and over her neck, she sat on her knees, in the middle of the forest of golden trees, and waited. an owl flew overhead, the field mice crept away, then she heard him, whistling a careless tune. off key but sweet none the less. his body swayed with the rhythm of his whistling, his easel swung beside him. she could feel him drawing nearer, she laid low in the grass. the dried grass crackled in alarm, he stopped, set down the easel and began to work, his whistle transformed to a hum. the notes formed upon his lips, she knew them from the town dance the month before. his slow methodical movement changed, he seemed almost violent now, the colors clashing and then finding there place. she watched the sky appear, stars peaking through the cracks in the night. she stood and began to walk, finishing what she had begun, but her mind was no longer clear, she began to run the branches whipped her face, her breath came faster, and then she was there where she had begun, the light rushed out to greet her, then came her love, his face flushed.
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