The Bench

At the very top of the hill sat a little bench for lovers, alone among trees with thick branches and dense leaves. The wooden bench was a little rickety and sat hidden from sight. Its ancient brown paint was almost hidden with the yellow dead leaves from the trees. But at its feet were little bushes that bore little flowers sometimes. The purple flowers were vibrant and always livened up the place. They would wither off only to be replaced by another set of wild delights.

The breeze is light today but the leaves are excited. They gossip about the much anticipated arrival. The breeze carries the gossip on to the little stream that was playing with its pebbles. The stream delivers it at the banks of the river. The scorching sun hides behind stray wisps of cloud and peeps once in a while. But all that can be heard are footsteps.