Tonight the wolf moon stares across the night and howls its low & mournful, mid-winter howl. Darkness, and winter still, and a moon-howl of cold still on its way.
But the afternoon!
The slow, unwinter-like hours of sun-flakes wafting down. The pregnant, lazy warmness. As if a day of summer had dripped into January.
The word for today was languid.
Languid warmth that drifts slow and summerlike on the air.
Birds that chirp soft and lazy and languid as they wing in lazy arc across the warm-rimmed trees.
Languid, easy folds of her hair wrinkled on the grass. Sly invitation of her eyes. Warm lips as you bend over her, kissing her long and languidly in the afternoon air.
Not for me!
Not me, chained in my cubicle. Unfree face and hands pressed shocked against the inside window, looking out.
Looking out at the languid day.
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