kittyslave
In the quiet can be heard a muted midsummer song, a soft melody that might once have been hummed at the end of day by some Provençal shepherd. It’s sung in a voice soft and hushed as petals, a voice that lifts itself above the setting sun, a voice that reaches an octave above sunlight. The song insinuates itself along the edges of shadows, curling up inside the hollows of leaves as the daylight fades—and there it will wait until morning.
Midsummer is gone, but the song repeats itself every sun-filled day until it disappears, lost to the shadowy seasons.
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