The cinnamon tang of ferns
Clicks of insects like the freewheel of a bicycle
Treetops afire
Dying orange light
Leaves hinting red
Moist air grows cool
Musky damp
Memories of itchy sweaty skin
Before bath
And bed
Pale blue dims and stars resolve
Where once was empty sky
Pupils dilate and they appear
By the magic of optics
(They are there regardless)
Between the red and green of planes coming home
A squirrel hastens up and down an oak for mouthfuls of acorns
Thrice, daring owls in the dark
(Starvation is not as quick, but just as real)
Bats are awake
Hunting
A solitary mosquito
(Too slow)
Foliage in silhouette
Trees are paper cutouts of black on blue
Dappled with a fan brush of rust
Car tires on gravel
Window lights blink on
They are home and we now wind down to sleep
dusk
