The butterflies sit in his hair, the field around him a sea stretching into infinity in either direction. He hasn’t moved in hours, and the only passing motion is the opening and closing of wings, the silent ripples that the breeze creates in the lush grass.
He can feel his partner’s approach even before he comes into view, a dark figure that parts the tide with his gait. When he kneels in front of him, he takes one of the fragile things on a finger, and it flees to the wind.
The meditation is over, but the break is welcome.
bohemian.on.rye 