So we say...


"Nightfall," so we say at close of day. It doesn't happen that way, though. Night rises, creeps from under the shrubs and rosebushes where she has been hiding since morning, lurks in the shadows pooling around the trunks of laurel and hemlocks. She loiters in the yard until she seizes her moment, then slowly climbs to the tops of the tallest pines and poplars.

Day retreats grudgingly before the voracious dark, makes a last stand atop the ridge beyond the town. The sun winks out behind Pace Mountain. The sky swallows what is left of light, fireflies flash their first tentative code of the evening, stars blossom. Then, it is night.

henrymitchellbooks.com

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