The sky is thick with squirrels.
They run over the high branches, in their crime-scene scurries, chasing each other up and down the bark roads, shaking the leaf tops, owning the sky.
The sky wants to rain.
The squirrels don't care.
They perp-and-police up and down the century trees.
The sky gets its wish.
The grey rains and the gossamer sky roads rustle.
Down below, my red hood is up. I am happy at a table, under my blue sky umbrella.
But wait. I spot a white unfolding down the garden path.
And hey. The rain lets up, as it does on occasion in its grace.
No. Yes. A wedding dress I do espy. I come closer.
The buds of the wedding dress begin to unfold. A figure emerges from the leafage and the grey--begone!--and so it is, as wishes on occasion are truly granted.
Out of the quiet, I am a guest at a wedding dress. Under squirrel skies, a May wedding dress blooms, and buds and blooms.
(Photo by Susan, in the garden)
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