Daylight is but a faint memory stretched thin against the western rim.
The trees rise black silhouettes against it; a night breeze plays hand games with them, teases tendrils of hair and chills the bareness of my arms.
I sit on the front porch after a long day and rest my elbows on my knees, my chin in my hands. And look. And listen. And wait.
All color muted in delicious, dusky coolness. My snakeskin boots and goldenrod shirt show the most visibly. And they are paling.
Noisy for the hour. Traffic passing within twenty feet of me, behind the row of trees. Headlights stretch and thin again against dark houses, yards, and street. My brother dribbling and shooting in the driveway. The dull bang of the ball against the metal rim. The solid thunk as it hits the pavement. The swish as it passes through the net. I keep my eyes averted so as not to invade his night space and throw off his game.
Nothing yet. Mind too full and weary with the business of the day.
So I come inside. And write anyway.