It's been a busy day, mostly mowing. Who ever heard of mowing in the Dayton area in November? Who ever heard of doing it twice? Yet that's how much of my day was spent, cutting the too-long grass before it was too late to do anything about it. It wasn't the winter ahead that scared me but the work I'd be making myself next spring.
Now, evening, I'm treading in wet shoes, green with grass stains, and so it doesn't matter that I walk back to the field to watch the sun set. The grass is gaining a layer of dew already but the shoes are still wet and I figure the shoes are already ruined. So stand here with me and watch the sun go down. It is the best thing to do at the moment.
There, to the south of Sam's house, the sun is already nestled in the branches. I have arrived none too soon.
How quickly it seems to fall with the horizon as reference. You can see it dip between the branches, leaping one by one as it falls to the ground.
And then it is nearly hidden, gone for more than half a day. Another cold night lies ahead.
When the sun has dipped beneath the horizon, the clouds, still high enough to receive its glow, shine in the chilly sky. I can feel the dampness gather beneath my toes.
And as a few minutes more pass, even the afterglow quiets, and a few birds sing as they search out a roost.
The final show is an abstract painting, brushed across the bottoms of clouds. It is time for me to go in, too, and call it a day.