rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Wednesday

A dozen loud geese scribed a great arc from east to south, flying over my house at a hundred feet, no more, and then the sky turned red as the sun escaped. Dozens of crickets chirped for the falling dark, and the still air, heavy with day's heat, finally stirred, the cool breeze rustling the trees as the fattened moon grew bright. All evening my porch was the world's most perfect place.
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