October dusk

What do you mean by knife, by wind? The bluest sky below the wash of sunset pink, delectable as a slice of blue fruit riding the horizon’s blade. Half a moon over the barn. The field of goldenrod fuzz gathering its sparrows, brown into brown, poor Sam Peabody as lamentable as ever: a song that catches in the middle like a shirt on a thorn. The wind dying, & the color in the trees darkening like dried blood.