seduction

It has been going on all summer: the flirting, the teasing, as when the heavy air slyly lifts the skirts of the gazebo to flap in the wind and the petticoat curtains make a shuffling sound as they scrape past each other and finally part and reveal. Bees buzz together, gathering around the sweating glass of yellow beer on the table. Twittering birds play hide and seek in the leaves. Where are they now? On that moving branch or is it only the wind brushing by again? Is that their song or the squeak of the awning as it strains against the metal supports? Nothing is plainly seen or heard; the gauze of the heat covers and muffles everything. Even the cat has given up looking, his eyes closed in sleep on the coolest step down from the deck. His fur moves up and down as he breathes, chin nested between paws, mouth slightly open.
You imagine you hear him warn: don't even think of working in the hot garden. The weeds can wait. Stay in your chair. Rest. Put your head back. Nothing really needs to be done. You have hours now to observe the sky, time the cloud's glide over one rooftop to another, check the openings of buds, measure their progress as they give birth to full blooms, with stamens like baby fists shaking in the air above pink petals.
You feel the heat, the trickle down the back, under the bra strap. You want to slip off the damp clothes, undo the sandals to walk in the grass, let the summer wrap its arms around you in a sweaty embrace. Dare to do nothing for now. The frost comes soon enough to cool the passion. Flowers fade, the bus pulls up, the school bell rings. The seduction ends.