The earth turns our view out of day, into night. A deepening mottle of cloud, silk-soft, harmonious, settles low. All is shadow in the antiqued light.
Eyes adapt, ears are confused: there is music: the percussion of which is traced to water twisting in a ridged drainage pipe.
Cool air on skin; scent of wet grass. A lick of dark coffee, lingering.
Like the water tumbles a convergence comes.
It is enough, in life, sufficient of itself, to have this sentient experience: to be delighted by it. Anything that is not part of this is superfluous.
It is not what is done; not endured, adored, embraced nor denied; it is the perception of it.
It is walking through this blend of evening shades, soul centred, blazing.