Beneath the Pines

gravel gripped roads plunging deep into a black ocean sky. we whisper in its silence, pulled off to the side of the road with backs pressed against the cool metal of the car top so we can catch a glimpse of this late-august dipper. a lone headlight beams past, blinding the glow of the reigning moon. the grass smells sweeter here, where fireflies buzz and flit between the stalks.

in the morning we swap fizzy, midnight memories, as we sail back 60 mph — years strung into moments like paper lanterns, light as our fingers surfing the warm gusts of summer air. a song, queued: murder to the mind. tell me — do you feel? these pine trees are growing taller by the minute.

we park the stripped down Civic and shuffle our feet past the looming tower of sand to the little strip across the lake, where monarchs rush overhead in a dazzling orange flutter, as if to say, tell me — where the time goes?

once the sky fades purple, ice cream melted sticky down our wrists, our bodies become drowsy. we’ve been mellowed by salty swims and the sun, and the whole world has stopped breathing, it seems, for a moment.

but where does the time?

oh time — I didn’t see the beauty until now, and the crashing waves reclaim the shore before the last bit of light disappears, from you and I, beneath the pines.