I'm lying under the cherry tree, damp grass between my toes.
Dappled sunlight through the branches, I breathe in the sweet aroma of afternoon green.
A small powder-blue butterfly dances with a dandelion.
I lie still, careful not to scare her away. I close my eyes.
Distant children's cackle, I recognize my son's among other joyful voices. The train down in the valley whistles––then suddenly mutes––as if swallowed by a tunnel.
Someone is burning dry leaves somewhere.
Or am I already dreaming?
We are in Tuscany on vacation. And lazy afternoons like these are the norm.
I feel a little bit guilty: markets are dropping, cities are rioting, politicians are at each others' throats, and I'm here, dozing under a peaceful cherry tree, fully relaxed. And happy.