Dusk Meridian

The birds scatter, swallowing the last blue— their wings dark punctuation in a sentence the sun forgot to finish.

Your shadow on the fence grows thick, a second self that doesn't answer when you turn to look.

The houses breathe in amber light. Windows become mirrors, then eyes, watching nothing and everything at once.

Even the grass remembers it was fire once, holds it in the deep green, cool now, quiet now, waiting for the dark.