Reading After Twilight.

Quicksilver, the summer’s ended. Sure, there’ll be more long days, redolent with golden sunshine, but the air has sharpened, mist slinks through the valleys in the mornings, the flower petals are running towards ragged-edged.

Evenings, I read outside, the crickets tapping away at their slowing symphony, the mosquitoes on my toes, silent bees still sucking at sunflowers. The world moving along.

“It is not our job to remain whole.
We came to lose our leaves
Like the trees, and be born again,
Drawing up from the great roots.” 

— Robert Bly