I sit and say good bye to the day, in my own way, listening to the rustle of leaves, having a moment of quiet to see the lengthening of shadows, the light turning golden, slowly slipping away.
It was a strange brooding day, dark clouds hovering close, at one point blackening the sky even as the sun shone brightly on the forest, the field, the lake. Tomorrow there will be rain, and the next day, and the next. The forecast showed nothing but grey clouds and raindrops, so I look at the light now, drinking it in before it’s gone.
The moon is dark, and so are my dreams, seeming to have fallen into chaos, and I can hardly remember them. I’m more tired also, and have little to say, or to write, and I just want to sit and look at the trees, the play of light and shadow.
When we drove to the store today, I looked out on yellow and purple flowers, and fields of burnt orange. I saw glitterings lakes and white clouds hanging low in the sky, and I felt the day was rose colored and golden, and I could not speak in fear of not being there to see it all, feel it touch something inside of me. I thought of winter and how everything will be white, or a muddy brown and I knew I would miss all the colors that are so bright and shining now, how I would miss the sound of water and leaves.