The Migration of Shadows

The sun leans heavy against the brick, spilling long, violet fingers across the driveway. The day is unspooling its golden thread, one dust mote at a time.

Under the porch, the darkness gathers its skirts, waiting for the signal to expand. It breathes with the rhythm of cooling asphalt, a slow, tidal pull towards the night.

Trees become silhouettes of their own memories, reaching for a sky that has turned to bruised peach. The birds are gone, leaving only the sound of the wind turning a page in the grass.

Nothing is lost, only redistributed. The light retreats into the marrow of the oak, and the shadows step forward to claim the hollows we left behind.