Beauty hurts

Tonight is one of those perfect evenings, where the indigo sky is lightly mottled with salmon clouds and early stars, the deer are warily but calmly watching me pass, and the air is still and heavy with honeysuckle. God, that smell. Olfactory experiences are only third on the list of senses that are likely to arouse me (touch and sound being one and two, respectively), but something about that honeysuckle. That smell must be associated with some very pleasant memories nestled down in my subconscious, because the moment I inhale it the shiver goes from my sinuses right down my spine. A mourning dove cooes, and the geriatric beagle bounces along happily, paying no heed whatsoever to the deer, who are stiller than the trees. The last of the spring peepers to get laid are chirping out their frantic mating calls, and it's still too early for mosquitoes. Ah! That smell again. I make the dog wait a moment so I can walk up to a honeysuckle shrub and plant my face in it. The blossoms are so delicate I can barely feel them on my skin, but the scent almost knocks me over. I look up, and wish on the first star I see that someone will come along to share this with me. I am completely bummed, because at this moment I am standing in the most beautiful place on earth, and I am the only one who knows about it.