Summer’s long legs, the daylight stretching late in almost eternal dusk. They sat on the back stoop, the three friends fixed on the glow of the horizon, city and sky, a widening maw ready to devour them.
They were not a poetic group. Hyperbole and metaphor did not register in their gazes, though a purity of deliberation on their part froze the surrounding dark.
Around them, the city buzzed.
It surged. An electrical current, a digital riptide.
Connections made and lost with no gain. Why try to hold life in one’s palm, in one’s pocket? To capture a moment was to lose it, the three friends knew.
There would never be a more perfect evening. Until tomorrow’s.
What then could ambition mean? What future promise was better than this?
They sprawled magnificently on the uneven steps. Arms and jaws relaxed. Three friends on a stoop. Breathing the warm night. Secure in silence.
Nothing could pull them into a beckoning beyond once they’d stretched out in the long legs of summer.
