Mom at the wheel, dad perusing The New Yorker, we clear the summit of Harmony Hill and from a distance the trees in the valley are inviting as feather pillows. It is July and the colors are shouting at the sky: flowers for sale, stands of fresh fruit. In a few moments we’ll pass beneath the culvert, park the car, and cut the engine. Our faces will feel the brush of the hot breeze, our ears fill with the song of cicadas. Nan’s prepared a picnic lunch, with fresh tomatoes from her garden. There are sandwiches and iced tea and pie. We’ll fill our bellies, as the motorboats buzz thru the honeyed light.