Silent Embers

The sun dips below the jagged ridge, spilling bruised purple across the valley floor. Long shadows stretch like fingers, reaching for the warmth that slips away.

A single hawk traces circles in the cooling air, its cry a sharp splinter of glass against the silence. Below, the river turns from silver to slate, swallowing the last reflections of the day.

We stand at the edge of the encroaching dark, breathing in the scent of crushed pine and dust. The embers of the evening settle into ash, as the first pale star punctures the velvet sky.