Evening's Dissolve

The light doesn't leave—it loosens, spreading its amber across the treetops like honey through cheesecloth, each shadow a stain it can't quite reach.

The birds have already forgotten their names, settling into the hush that comes before the stars remember how to shine. Something in the grass is learning to be still.

I watch the day fold into itself, each fold smaller, warmer, until what remains is only breath and the faint electric hum of crickets tuning for the dark.

This is the hour when walls become suggestions, when the distance between here and somewhere else collapses into a single point of dusk. The world is unbuttoning itself.