Tis the season

Of Rittenhouse picnics on patterned blankets, frayed corners curling in towards the cool earth; of smooth melodies emitted gently from vintage guitars; of grainy picture planes and plastic lens flare; of the world seen through the dreamy film spun by your sunglasses; of backlit silhouettes against blue skies when the sun makes glowing orbs of everything, from your breeze-tossed hair, to the peach fuzz on the arms of everyone in your company.