Resting this afternoon, eyes closed but not asleep, my mind was drawn to more than 60 years ago, when days like this - warm, out of season days, dawning clear- would be tantalizingly warm at mid-day. The seductive cologne of cut grass would draw a child to kick off shoes and socks to wander a bit in the cool grass. If time and circumstances allowed, one might then plop down, belly first, head on crossed arms, and rest.
The sounds of the world would instantly recede, yielding to near-silent scurryings of the ant and bug world, and the subtle re-arrangements of the grass. The world grew quieter with the declining angle of the sun. There might be a car horn sounding in a far-away fog, or someone calling children, or children laughing and scuffling as they made their way to the inside, evening world. People went in for dinner, or started dinner, or were on their way home for dinner.
Eventually the child would wake; the sun would no longer feel warm on her back, her bare legs would be cold. Someone might call the child, several times, each time the voice becoming a little louder and a little more irritated. The child would roll onto her back, discovering that the sun had gone from the sky, taking the heat and the day with it. She would sit up, stuff her socks into the toes of her shoes, and pad through the cold, early-dew kissed grass toward toward the lighted windows of her house.