Soft light drifts down over the leaves, through the iron bars, and settles on the worn and aging concrete of the back porch. The sky is painted with muted blues and greys, softened with ethereal white streamers that shift and dissipate from form to form.
The tops of the iron railings reflect the soft light back to the sky. The rest of the porch is softened in the late afternoon light, edges rounded, colors muted, as if stone and metal were thinly painted with chick's down.
The trees and bushes behind the porch are still, their breathing slowed, their motion calmed. No fickle breeze teases the tips of branches. No frantic bird bounces between the leaves in search of a meal.
The greying light has cast its twilight spell over all that it touches, dripping blue shadows between the trees. Beyond the tree tops, soft grey clouds are tinged with pink, one bright white ribbon streaming behind them, the tail of some long-gone jet. Such a roaring and bursting through the clouds has no place here. The grasses are dreaming. The back porch is drifting asleep. And the sky sings the lullaby.
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