Sometimes the sunset is dressed to kill, sometimes it lets it slide. I never could keep count, lost and dumb and always a little amazed. I never knew they had my number and were always keeping score. Some days it goes from blue to black, some days it just burns and burns. I sit until the shadows take me. I am still and I am swallowed by h the depths of the gathering night.
Tonight the dusk flows slowly, closing in as hints and secrets. The thrill of a subtle breeze touching sun warmed skin. The whisper of insects in the air and the blur of birds through the trees. The crowded call of music approaching, the drawl and reach of music as it pulls away. Crows stream ink along the sky, flying to whatever roost awaits. The effect is strangely plaintive as I submerge into this usual stupor. The whole day gone or going, the life it leaves behind.
There is that sundown pause, then that sliver of a moon. The world takes a breath and eyes open or close. Another dusk bereft of direction, another stumble of well-worn words. The road imagined always rundown by the road that is, I never believe my luck. I paw and sulk and brute my way from nowhere to its mother with barely scar or bother. I stoop unscathed while all those betters and youngers line up on the precipice. Deep in tree and shadow I leave these marks and scratches. Gifted though as far from my wishes as my heart is from the nearest star. Though lost un this muddle of sadness and doubt, I am clearly blessed.