Estivale

Dusty light
Filters through the branches
The last rays of the sun
Flicker as a dying fire
On the copper brown bark
At my back.

I look down,
And see you sitting
Staring out through the leaves,
Humming an old tune,
Idly swinging one leg
In time with mine,
Though you can not see it.

Further down,
Fallen leaves are strewn
As a child's neglected play things
In every imaginable color,
Save black.
Pine needles,
Acidic to the tongue
Litter the dust
Refreshing it
With their sharp scent,
Disguising the other stale leaves
And needles
Lying hidden beneath.

People walk past
The spectrum of the trees
And past our tree
Staring at the ground
As if fascinated by
Their shoes, the soles worn out
From walking too fast,
Rushing to be where they think
They have to be.
No one pauses to look up
At the sky, or the tree
Or us.

Everyone walks by
Oblivious to the wonder of the sky
Splashed with red and yellow
The artist's sunset of a canvas
Transformed
In the light of the spent day.

No one sees us,
Our backs to the same trunk,
Our feet swinging lazily
In time with each other's.