Fat cottonwood shadows folded over her bare freckled shoulders, the leafy breeze mingling with the grey green foliage sun dress print, soft yellow squash blossoms and vines gathered over her breasts, pumpkins growing, breathing in, thick moist air and Jasmine, salt water beading on lips always talking to the always listening garden.
 
Fat Cottonwood shadows flashed cool over his already wet white tee-shirt, shadows falling, shadows nestling finally into straw-filled bales. He stacks them in rows to become their studio's walls, one day.
 
Neither builder has too much to say, though they watch each other at times, grateful for each other, grateful for the shade, grateful for the weekend, grateful for their green and growing place under the sun. 
 
They are building. They are creating. They are making. They are growing. Older, a little wiser, perhaps. They smile a lot. They do a lot of little things for each other and their garden and their place, placing faith that all those little things will add up to wonderful big things, one day.
 
Watching shadows.
 
If I were god, I would make eight days: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday and One Day.
 
And on that One Day, which would last as long or as short as anybody wanted, you could do anything you wanted, anything, whatsoever, whensoever, howsoever. Read. Write. Work. Work-out. Garden. Build. Fly a kite. Design. Plan. Sleep. Eat. Watch TV. Lie. Cheat. Be cheap. Fight. Love. Be loved. Just be.
 
But, I'm not god. Neither are you.
 
The only One Day we'll ever know will be formed by all those little things we choose to do between Now and Later.
 
Right Now, I'm going to climb up on my John Deere and carve some new roads, the ones less traveled by.
 
 
Later.