Tucked under my arm
a volume, a new edition
penned by a favored author.
A Summer Saturday
sanguine and serene,
sunshine abounding.
My lawn chair, half reclined,
cushioned and shaded,
beckoning an occupant.
Icy beverage,
splendid sweetness,
sweating condensation.
I sit supine
legs elevated
comfort seeking.
Ray-Ban's lowered,
sipping, slurping,
book poised and ready.
Summer sounds surround,
a lark's languid song,
leaves restlessly rustling.
Children's shouts
fade into the distance,
a bark of a lazy dog.
A motorcycle whines,
auto engines revving
to decibels most distracting.
Mowers and weed whackers,
a domestic dispute from
the neighboring yard.
And me, sitting in my silence
turning page after page
engrossed in published excellence.
Three chapters later
I finally notice the church bells
tolling the hour, God's doorbell.
Six O'clock and
a summer Sunday looms,
where more brilliance awaits.
I down my tea,
tucking my tome under the crook
of a bent elbow. One hell of a read!
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