What glamour? What a luminous show? Clean air; sharp and cold, stinging like an amorous bee, flapping across his freckled face. Dancing dew drops on the glistening green leaves, reflecting the reddish dawn, a thin veil of mist enveloping the hilly hamlet, and little birds perching themselves on the parapets of sleepy houses, swinging cable wires, silvery electricity poles and on stray smokeless chimneys, chirping provokingly, threateningly.
The sun rose from behind the huge hills, a painfully slow saunter but with a welcome grin, throwing silvery rays as if a halo across the azure sky.
And expectations of a new day hung like the unfolding of a vivacious drama.
One could catch butterflies if one ran down to the damp surroundings of the streams early in the morning or late into a tired evening- yellow, white, and carelessly patterned , with their wings fluttering in intense activity. She would run downhill trying to catch them calling out loudly that she preferred them over boys.
That was a long time back and childhood lingered like a pleasant dream, one that is believable like faith, perhaps, or, even as a cold fact.
And he would chase her chasing butterflies.
