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)