Gloaming

When the orange coals of sunset settle on the horizon, I look east. The winds tickle the apple tree, revealing the bright undersides of the leaves, impressing the illusion of sunlight. The clouds are so low they appear painted. Purplish grays waft like stretched dough into the dull sky, just perceptibly blue. Above the coals a crescent moon dazzles like a glinting needle. There is a raucous of spring peepers adding cries to the winds' whispers. A gust lifts the iron siding of the sugar shack, and it rattles, heavy, slow, and thin. A horse snorts in answer to each breeze that circles the farm. The air still smells like new life, the breath of infant plants. It smells like ozone, today's rain, the lilac blooming across the lawn, and electricity. The wind reminds me of time passing. I can make out pink, one stroke of color fading into the colorless cloud to the north. The pink will not last. And suddenly I am awake, and among it all. Tonight the clouds are not moving. It is calm, despite the approaching storm.