The Outside Falls Away
The twilight is a veil, decorated by gray rain. The green, behind, looks both deeper and more imaginary — at the same time. Now the distant murmur of thunder. The sky is low wet cotton, with nearly all its blue leeched out. An almost invisible fall of water is whispering to itself, while the traffic frets on the highway. Lots of headlights…streetlights soon to shine. The storm gets a bit sharper…then fades back. As the streets get glossy, the dimness grows. The candle in my window has awakened, its electric eye sensing the watery erasure of daylight.
In the nearby future, I will have red soup, steaming on the stove. Sandwiches to accompany. And beets in a bowl, with vinegar and onions.
The lights, inside, are bright. As the outside falls away.