Picnic

The picnic was arranged in the earliest hours of the day, when the sun had only just begun to assert itself and the grass still held fast to the night. Each step upon the meadow was answered by a soft yielding underfoot, the dew clinging obligingly to hems and shoes, as though reluctant to release its claim. There was a freshness to the air that encouraged civility of spirit and quiet cheer, lending even the simplest preparations a sense of occasion.

A cloth was laid with care upon the damp ground, its corners darkened by moisture, yet none thought this an inconvenience. Baskets were opened, their contents revealed with modest pride—bread, fruit, and such comforts as seem most agreeable when enjoyed beneath an open sky. Conversation proceeded unhurriedly, punctuated by the distant call of birds and the low murmur of the waking world, which appeared content to observe rather than intrude.

As the morning advanced, the dew retreated, leaving behind a softened brightness upon the field and a shared satisfaction among those gathered. It was a small assembly and a simple indulgence, yet it possessed a richness beyond its means, for it was shaped by the hour itself—by cool grass, gentle light, and the quiet understanding that such moments, once passed, are rarely improved upon by excess.