I sat on the warm ground, watching the sky grow dark. August had come, filled with angry heat, absent rain, and upset souls. The virus had surged, melting away hope for a return to the normalcy of a troubled world. I whispered your name into the encroaching shadows and silence. Around me, the insects awoke and did the same, speaking their alien language in accompaniment. Until the mosquitoes made their appearance, there would be a pleasant truce between human and insect. I silently sat, struggling to count the emerging stars against the luminescence of the city reflected in the sky, With each appearance, I wished there was a way to find my spotless mind. Because that quiet peace eluded me, I remained seated in the tall grass, knowing that tomorrow’s obligations were racing toward me. My secret place is near a busy road lined with scented honeysuckle. No one could see me as I sat. And I saw no one, except for my own solitary soul. There was room in the grass for more than one. But for now, it is just me, wishing it were not so. Of course, there is hope for tomorrow. Each of us has an unannounced last day and few of us know that during that day, our feet will grow motionless and the future grinds to a halt. It’s why I lingered in this grass, my heart whispering bittersweetly to itself. In the air, honeysuckle. In my heart, a smaller jar of time pulsed with one less firefly. Still, I smiled. Though the moment was unshared, it was mine.