The sun emerged as quickly and with as much force as the monsoon that preceded it, and the world felt clean as the picnickers met at the edge of the forest. It never ceased to amaze them how quickly the sandy soil of the ancient valley drained and dried, allowing them to enjoy a seat on the ground, even as thunder rumbled in the distance from the receding storm.

They played cards, ate slowly, and some friends climbed a tall evergreen. One woman found a swing, an old board looped through on each side with ropes from a very high branch. She mostly swayed on the swing, but at times a few friends remembered games from their childhoods, rushing under her as they pushed her higher.

A contingent studied the small life that roiled the soil, lying on their bellies while another group formed an impromptu singalong with a guitar, a tiny drum, and a few people singing. They sang a Grateful Dead song exploring the mysteries of existence, life, and death. They sang a Khoma Brut song about a retreat from an attempted life change, a return to the familiar life. Then another by that artist, exploring the dissolution of a relationship. A few mosquitoes came out as dusk approached and the waning sunlight warmed them as it angled below the tall trees of the forest. The group fell silent for a time, heads buzzing like the insects coming awake around them.

The moment the sun sank below the horizon, the cool air pressed more firmly against their skin. As the sun left, they felt it time to do the same. They slowly packed up, full from feasting and play, and started the walk back to town. At the crossroads, the boundary between the forest and the town, at the boundary between day and night, they said bittersweet goodbyes and headed to resume domestic life.