While Listening to the Last Crows

[rejectomorph]

The Marathon sun runs race after race, and day after day the records fall. Earth sweats with the sun's exertion. This afternoon, a competitor appeared. Soft clouds which had lurked all day suddenly sprinted into the west, softening the light, and the day breathed a sigh of relief, a cool breeze which stirred the new blossoms and wafted their fragrance through the shade. As the sun dropped from sight, the clouds glowed a cheery pink, then darkened to smoky banners striating the last light. A young hawk glided toward them, dusk flowing from his wings, his passage the embodiment of silence.