Still Hot

[rejectomorph]

A slow descent of darkness returns the world to its simplified but more mysterious state. I can no longer see the spiders spinning their webs, or the closed faces of the sourgrass flowers. Instead, I feel the brush of moth wings, and hear something rustling the dead leaves under the wild plum bushes. There were fewer clouds today, and with nightfall only those in the east remain. There, the moon (now a bright near-circle veiled by a filigree of pine branches) again illuminates their wispy drifts to set an large swath of sky aglow, but it will soon rise to an unobscured height and flood the street with its borrowed rays. I imagine flights of bats stirring the warm air with dark, supple wings.