Twilight is the day stretching its limbs out for the rest to come. It is a grey, calming time when birds hush and the night insects, less shrill than the birds and more monotonously whirring in their noises, come to take their place. The green seeps into the earth; the sky flattens and mellows. The world contracts, its edges drawing in, tightening the landscape, capturing it in a drawstring bag. But the progression is slow, almost imperceptible, and night only fumbles at the cord that will enclose the day.

I lie here waiting for night, my posture imitating twilight’s, my eyelids closing the edges of this day. Boundaries blur; outlines soften. Trees blend with the hues of grass, a watercolor leaching into the fibers of the  earth, a tonal wash of green. Gently, silently, objects disappear, absorbed. Cicadas simmer, their sound a pulsing current that the crickets’ higher pitches ride upon. Neither obtrudes, however, but only provides a murmuring accompaniment to the blurring fields. Eventually, all that remains visible is the ridged silhouette of the tree line against the darkening sky, and slowly they too, sky and border, dissolve into dark solution.

Night has come, the sack cinched. Blackness fills the panes of my window and “I cannot see to see.”

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