The Glass House at Dusk

The sun folds into the eaves, a bruised orange bleeding into the cedar, where the windows drink the last of the day and hold it, shimmering, in their brittle throats.

Inside, the dust motes dance a slow waltz, drifting through columns of dying gold that reach across the floorboards like fingers searching for a ghost.

We are caught in the clarity of evening, transparent and brittle as the air between us, watching the shadows stretch their long limbs until the garden is swallowed by the blue.