For a while, the evening sky held swaths of lilac and dogwood pink, exactly matching the blooming trees. Wherever sky shone through the green mass of the western woods, it was as though a forest of blooms had taken root beyond the oaks and pines. The turn toward night sent the last rays of light higher, to wash those clouds which have emerged from the overcast, and the rising tint was like the essence of that phantom wood ascending, passing through the clouds to soon vanish from a sky now chilled to icy blue. The last of day's birds are singing songs of dusk, and it is now the turn of the actual dogwood blossoms and lilacs to fade and vanish with those songs and the sky's last light. Long hours loom before the waning moon will rise and its paler light revive those flowers as faded ghosts of themselves. This show itself has scant days left to run as spring surrenders more and more of its varied colors to the overwhelming green. The first cricket chirps. I am consumed with thoughts of transience.