We kiss. We hold each other. We caress. The ethereal touch of the moon's light and a brief cool breeze yearn to become one with the young lovers. Nighthawks flit overhead while the owls stand their nocturnal watch. The gentile cooing of the rain doves foretell an oncoming summer storm.
Our bodies wrapped in a blanket of heated passion, merge with the rising wind. Clouds build to the west as thunder echoes in the distance, vibrating the ground with a primal energy. Leaves rustle and the woods come to life, awakened by flashes of nearby lightning. Simultaneous crashes of electrical energy introduce the clearing to a much needed gentile quenching rain.
Quickly recovering our damp clothing, blanket and empty bottle of wine, we quickly make our way out of the clearing to the protection of a nearby abandoned farm building. Without a word, we stand in the barn door's ample threshold quietly kissing, rain and sweat mingling. The scent of passion and hay and the woods and rain press against our souls, making their tender but permanent marks in our memories.
Whew. That has been rolling around in my brain for a few weeks now. Sometimes ideas just do that; roll around in there and just push and prod to be released. This was definitely one of them.
While this is for the most part fiction, it is based on a real event. There was no clearing or woods or bottle of wine. The altered details and extrapolations not withstanding, this is an event I will probably never forget.
And I wonder about it. Will I ever experience this sort of passion again? Will I ever kiss a woman in the rain or maybe a lightly falling snow? Is young love or passion relegated only to the young?
And I further wonder, for me, does it matter?