Bartz Field in the July heat,
pretty girls in their summer dresses
singing songs of Woodstock and American dreams.
My dream lay beneath a sycamore,
motionless in her island of shadow.
I left her there to dream of cold beer
and headed up to Red Hill.
The sun shone with less ferocity up there,
a slight breeze cooling the air,
and from my vantage point,
I could make her out, sleeping gently,
the calm point in the hustle-bustle
of the students playing games
and chatting over cold drinks.

On the horizon, a thunderstorm was brewing,
promising the relief of cool rain
to wash the heat from the city,
for at least an hour or so.
I scanned the city, the McDonald’s
directly across the road from
the Museum of Natural History.
I wonder if there was some irony in that placement,
or sheer luck that made me smile to myself.
The distant brontide of thunder applauded
and I looked back to the sycamore tree.
She was sitting up, looking around,
and when her head turned towards me,
I waved my arms above my head
like I was signalling a helicopter for my rescue.
She didn’t see me and she stood up,
confusion written in her body language.

I stumbled down the trail and when I reached the park,
she was back under the tree,
fingers of one hand wrestling with those on the other.
I called her name and she spun her head around
and leaped off the ground and embraced me,
then chastised me for leaving her
without telling her where I had gone.
I laughed and she laughed
and I kissed her and she kissed me back.
We sat down on the burned-out grass,
her head on my shoulder
and my arm around her waist,
as we watched and waited
for the thunderstorm to wash away
the heat of a glorious day.