in the sunshine

In the sunshine, I can think. Even when I'm doing absolutely nothing - my book lies unopened on the picnic table and the tennis ball unthrown on the trampled spring grass, it feels productive. In the sunshine, I can close my eyes and feel the sun sinking into my skin, into my eyelids, into my feet that dry up in the heat. My toes wriggle free after months of boots and socks that haven't been washed enough. My upper arms go uncovered and the slightest hint of sun is soaked into the pale white skin. Freckles, only a few, a very few, reveal themselves from the beams bearing down on it. There used to be more, but now only five or six. If I tan enough, by the end of the summer there might be more. On most days they are worn proudly, uncovered by make ups that might hinder their beauty. Even when the heat gets intolerable and I retreat inside, I long to be in the sun again; I can't stay in for long. It beckons and calls, what a luxury. In the sunshine it would be hard to work all day in a field, or build a house, or hunt. Then you would be longing for evening, to wish the sun to go away, for the cool night to come. In the night, another beauty arrives; the moon. In the moonshine, I can dream.