a midsummer day's dream

Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, that's all the Shakespeare I can fit in this scene.

The Bard isn't for everyone. Personally, I'm a fan, particularly of his lighter, more comical works, though I don't wish to emulate his trademark style beyond the couple of quirky lines included in this post. No, I have something far different in the works, a novel that has kept my fingers hovering over this keyboard day in and day out for months. Paired with Dennie's recent surge of longer hours, we've hardly had a moment to debate William's use of the phrase "in a spleen" rather than "in a fit of temper". (Not that we've ever done that; we're more prone to geeking out over a shared crossword puzzle or a quick round of Murdle.) Still, a spleen does conjure such an unwelcome and kind of squishy visual, but you can't really fault old Will--it's so much easier to rhyme.

Work has not been entirely to blame for our summertime captivity. While our plans were regularly rained out in June, July thrust upon us the kind of scorching days that repel any notions of fun in the sun. The varied hikes we imagined taking once the snow melted, the rains subsided, and the weather warmed have been consistently refiled under the heading: maybe next weekend. As sure as time off rolled around, the weather became utterly inhospitable. Yet with the promise of precipitation moving in Monday, this past weekend cooled slightly, enough to grant us an impromptu Sunday afternoon at the lake. The outing, the exercise, the fresh air benefited every one of us, most especially Maisie.

It was still hot but not unbearably so. We trekked along our usual routes and found a new path too--albeit one with a smaller bridge of questionable integrity--before we settled in for some post-hike relaxation. Perched upon a hill overlooking the lake, sublime breezes cooled our skin, and the three of us observed (and photographed) the many ways life and merriment played out upon the water. Most importantly, we reveled in the breadth of our doggie’s smile, a level of euphoria we'd been missing much too long.

“If we shadows have offended, think but this, and all is mended: that while sweet dog has slumbered near, and oft-scribed visions did appear, ere long dreams we plan, we make, for unpathed waters ‘cross yonder lake. Give me your paws, if we be friends. Adventure shall restore amends.”

Puck never said that. William Shakespeare is convulsing in his grave. Maisie Moon, on the other hand, is absolutely delighted.