It was one of those petrichor days when she dreamed and dreamed, or wrote and wrote. Cabins, quilts, damp-soft wood walks, a bird trill out of the blue, far off, now closer. A cove — the murmur of little wind-waves caressing the sandy shore, urging tadpoles to move along their arming and legging. Drifting like a river otter in an old rowboat tied to a dock, tumbling pebbles of wonder and mining the sky..
It never got to the point of happily-ever-after. It only mended a backpack tear under a side table’s bronze lamp, while the shortcake cooled and the dogs lightly snored. A look, a smile.. steady breathing like the hum of warm-enough crickets, and then held breath and the closing of a book that may be opened again at its twig marker, should a dream return before the sun.