In a Meadow at Dusk

The wispy clouds seem to exhale slowly as they thin out in the dying of the light. The sun melts into the darkening sky, and the blended oranges, pinks, purples, and blues fade into the fainting of the light. For a moment, there is silence. As if paying tribute to their sky god, the birds cease their chatter, the frogs pause their gossip, even the wind waits for the encore to finish. The rays strain to maintain the sun’s stronghold in the sky, and are eventually defeated by the pursuing night. On the opposite horizon, the pastel moon dimly glows, maintaining its post. An army of stars dot across the sky as the darkness engulfs the last wave of light. As if on cue, the orchestra commences. The frogs begin with a pulsating bass. The grasshoppers tune in with the sigh of their strings. The night bird divas harmonize into a soprano choir. The undulating music lures the lightning bugs into the field where they initiate their waltz. The cool breeze kisses my cheeks with a gentle hum. My arms bubble up into tiny goosebumps, and I shiver. The blades of grass, moist from the thunderstorm that afternoon, lick my bare feet as I walk across the field. A sultry fog sneaks up behind me while I linger, not wanting to return home just yet. I watch the smoky air glide toward the house. It glistens as it pours onto the glowing windows. My meditation is split by my mother’s dry voice beckoning me to dinner. Like a deer paralyzed in the beam of headlights, I stare dreadfully wide-eyed at the looming shadow of light created by the opened door on the carpet of fog. Then instinctively, simply, I sit down, swallowed by the mist, and I escape into the night.