Rusty Dusk

The infernal grey blanket is here, thickly woven, and stretched taut. Any prolonged absence of incandescence or volume in the sky puts me in a fowl mood. It’s as though a gauzy film covered my own eyes, and so I must travel back to this November day, where all bleakness was ravished by a rusty sunset. It spilled forth in copper waves, against which charred silhouettes gladly gave up the ghost. Leaves crackled like small flames on branches, falling in between rocks whose moss shimmered secretively. I stood outside in the humid chill warmed only by the electricity that pulsed through my retinas. What I wouldn’t give for such a current at this very moment.