It's all hot sun and achingly blue sky, and you're sitting leonine on the hood of your battered pickup. I wish I could draw just to capture you like this--squinting into the horizon, one knee drawn up to rest your elbow on, hair windswept. I'd keep the white t-shirt and jeans, but I'd add wings: big, dusky gray things, relaxed and resting open on the windshield, pale underbellies to the sun. It'd fit, somehow, with you.
"Remember that big storm they had up north last week?"
"Yeah." I wouldn't have forgotten, not after the charts and scans you showed me. I only saw a mess of swirling colors like an end-of-the-day paint palette, but you saw sense in the chaos.
You ease off the truck and walk toward my white picket fence perch. "The wildflowers bloomed like all hell out by the lake." Resting your arms along the top beam, you gaze off into the distance for a minute longer before turning mischievous eyes my way. "Want to go see?"
I'm off the fence in a heartbeat and the sunwarmed leather of the passenger seat glues to my legs like flypaper, and by the time you park on the edge of the tall grass the wind's kicked up. The bank is a fluttering explosion of creeping thyme and cattails, with Indian paintbrush and cornflower poking up through the spaces in between.
There's a rise up on the south end, overlooking the field scattered with poppy and chrysanthemum and the tree line a mile away, and that's where you lead me. You sit with that easy grace of yours, scanning the sky for turbulence. After a while I start looking at you instead of the flowers, because I can draw with my eyes even if my hands won't cooperate. It's so easy to follow the curve of your shoulders and extend it, sketching wings on you again--spread this time, feathers thick and dark and curling in the wind.
The radio's been forecasting tornadoes, but farther east. You can't help watching, though, and I know that's the real reason you wanted to head up here. You've always been one to keep an eye on things.