The house beside the river is a house of lazy, hazy days. You have gone there looking for something in the low grey sky and the thick flowing river, the still of the trees and the arched stone bridge.
You are there with your lover, laden with food and wine and strings of lights, and later, when your friends find the flashing beacon and appear at the door, the thing you have been looking for has arrived.
The arrival of love.
The arrival of stopped time.
A pause in the chase for a slow deep breath, the river house slipping into a held moment, the air vibrating with a buzz that thrums in your collective bloodstream.
Love infuses the wooden beams, the pillows and soft blankets, the shared food, the words that flow with a river’s strength. Love bulges out from the river house, spilling onto the bridge and into the darkening woods.
And when you leave, these days will stay inside you, beating to the sound of your heart and the shifting breath of your lungs. They flow through the river of your veins.
The lazy, hazy days of the river house.