Fleeting

The view from where he stands is idyllic, almost too perfect.

He stands in the shade of a tree, whose branches and leaves provide enough shade for him to hide from the ardent sun. High in the sky it is stationed, casting warm and illuminating rays across the grassy field, it reigns the day sky. They grass stands and bows to the breath of the wind, rustling whispers and hisses like white noise. The field reaches up to the edge the hill where he stands, staring out into the distance.

The sky is the brilliant kind of blue you only see in paintings and he knows this. He doesn’t ask questions, he just stands there and watches it all from where he stands at the top of the hill. The tree sways in encouragement for him to move towards the field but his eyes only narrow and watch. Birds dip and bob in the air, carefree, chirping pleasantly at their various altitudes.

He is torn. Because while he knows that this is all perfect,

He knows that it will all soon be gone.

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