summer days

There isn't much new to report, but maybe that's the point? 

Summer is watermelon on repeat and cousins and camp and rummaging through the fridge to find something to smash and grab, the same old seasonal love language of forced sunscreen application.

Summer is crossing the lawn to collect flowers in an empty beer can, ankles exposed to some kind of grass and clover collaboration, pausing to acknowledge the rabbits who can't even be bothered to move.

It's swatting mosquitos, wet swim suits, baseball games, corn on the cob. 

Summer is sitting on the patio with neighbors as the sun fades and sitting on the dock watching the kids swim and sitting at the pool letting the lifeguards do their job. It's sitting by the back door with coffee and the gift of another slow morning, body pressed against the right edge of the swivel chair, subconsciously leaving room for the one who comes straight to my side for the work of waking up all the way.

Our days have not been devoid of excitement, just mostly safe and steady and mundane.