It’s 4 a.m. and sunlit
grass bobs in the breeze,
tall and summer heavy
where we sprawl,
almost touching.
A masked waxwing darts
through quaking aspen,
chirping as he flits away
on crimson-dipped flight.
Cicada tymbals chatter,
and our laughter
gurgles spring-like
as your gaze reflects
the opulent caramel
of Tiger’s Eye.
And though I am afraid
of waking, I lean
across to kiss you.