Peaches, but not so fresh.

 We sat on a rock in the smoke of a hot afternoon. The sun beat down hard but the trees around the stream used their thick-packed leaves to filter out most of its merciless rays. Only a little direct sunlight managed to penetrate the leafy canopy so not much grew beneath the trees making it easy to find a good spot on the river bank to spread out the picnic blanket. There were squirrels, and the only noise was of the fast river pouring over rocks. And there were birds. I don’t remember much else about the day, but I do know that it was the day that Peaches died and after that there were no more picnics and we moved away to live in the city.