Stones, like sorcerer's tools, lay smooth as lexicons along the mulch path to the wrought-iron settee, recently dislocated from the side yard where its autochthonous mission was to "provide a place to sit in early morning sun," only it was hardly every used and so after years of idleness I moved it under the large pine tree, extending the effective seating area of the back porch a few feet, which is to say infinitely, for it is surprise that mimics infinity more than infinity itself. (I would be just as impressed with a thirty mile ocean as one that spans eight-hundred.) In that extra inch of surprise lay orgasm.
On this early eve, the sun strides kingly on the patio proper and only dapplings sprout where I am sitting. It is enough - as I enjoy this image of repose, the auburn hammock tied up to weight-bearing deciduous populars next to the blue spruce and Norway pine. A little red-roofed cabin, not ten inches wide, lay in the crook of the poplar, lending a pioneer air. Burning bushes flank the spruces and flowers curl along the curved path like trumpets announcing the Parousia. Draperies of the neighbor's tree add a weepy air, like that of willow or Spanish moss. My feet rest on the cool of large stones the color of wilted Georgian soil.
I read sentences from a Lars Christensen novel: "It had been a long time since I believed the world disappears so tantalizingly easily after nothing more than the closing of my eyes." and "Already she'd acquired a festive look - that of a boozy Cyclops."
No earthly peace be long undisturbed and soon it was the ear-split of lawn engines cutting the neighbor's grass; no sooner did my wife lay in the hammock - silent as a titmouse - when suddenly, like Norton on the Honeymooner's there's a bellow from an unseen neighbor: "Stephanie...Stephanie...I have a question!" (I told my wife she really needs to get that GPS chip out of her neck.)
Reverie ended, I packed up my books and called it a day, outside-wise.