Their breath held, though not really, as though they, those not held breaths, were the four winds before the moment of creation, as though they were some lesser infinite, the lightly bound apeiron, and tiny gods were just about everywhere but here,
until like all not quite held breaths, the act of restraining grows volumnious, filled with sound until breathing is the only speech, the first tongue,
the holy spirit and, well, other things;
and the wait, oh, that deep wait, that old stone well of a wait, forever it seems, wide now and narrowing into the horizon,
coming together like an artist's pastiche of a road, gravel and old, and the fireflies and dragonflies hover in the heat, wavering, like a mirage of water, in more arid times.
Storms north by north-east, they'll be here soon. She stays paused by his side, almost, but not quite, gathering flowers absentmindedly. Her hair gentle and shallow, like the evening sun climbing across a lake before the last sound of boats washes out to sea.
He thumbs and fiddles, fidgets and sighs. Guffaws, once, at the sound of a caw, and then sits silently. The first drops fall.