A tilt, a turn, a straw-felt longing. Resting, lilting a light-weighted grace. Something not needed, but added for utter whim. Her violet heels click on the bridge and her only movement is a languid arm spun upward to hold her brim down upon her stoic head. She lies sunning with her thoughts guarded from broad heat and broad affection by a wide fedora in a wicker effort.