Warmth on my upturned face, uncovered hair and bared arms, the light red-golden filtered through eyelids. The hot wide smell of tar from the pit on the other side of the path.
Cool moist grass beneath me, the low stone wall at my back reaching body temperature and giving off a faint rock scent mingling with that of sun-touched skin. A tiny bug tickling as it crosses the strip of back between jeans and brown sweater.
Noon approaches, my hair approaches 120 F and I ponder converting neck scarf to hijab against the sun.
Children running, families pushing strollers, the breeze rustling oak leaves and a book forgotten in my lap, its appeal unable to compete with the sun for my attention.
Summer in the midst of winter.