Dusk

My eyes are fixed to effects of light.

They way the fading sun makes the white fluff of a dandelion seem silver like it is a projection from another world.

Wheat becomes thin like thread, patterns like so many kaleidoscopes form and dust rises like the breath of a dream.

Dusk is the immortal time of day where it seems that all things are in concert and that light – pale and golden – shines not

on everything but

through

so you can see the bones of all things.

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