In the summertime, my favorite time of day is the last thirty or forty-five minutes before sunset.
The sun’s rays pour through the western windows, draping a stream of light across the kitchen floor and into the dining room.
That’s where the memories and the ghosts live.
If you focus or bathe in the light with them, you might hear their story.
He sat in the plush grass, his back leaning against the fence, staring at me with that dopey grin. The evening sun shining down like it was meant just for him. The grill sizzled behind me as I stood on the stoop and smiled back at him. We both knew it wouldn’t last long. Not the daylight, nor the warmth, nor the moments we had left to stare at each other. This might be the last night that we would cook dinner together. It’s better not knowing when the last time is. If I had known that that would be the last time I would have tried to make it something else, thus losing the magic of the mundane nature that made it special.
It was perfect, but the next time I fired up the grill, I was alone.
Whoosh! The warm wind of a summer morning dances through the leaves. She sits on the grass with her nose to the air. All the better to read the news.
The crunch of Autumns crisp leaves on the forest floor, the wisp of a white flag darts silently, a sense of caution
eyes from above watch the winter preparation, gathering of nuts, a screech from on high sounds the alarm
Soar through the blue
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