Dusk

43 DUSK Cappy Love Hanson

Dusk, and the air unbusying itself of a summer day. Elms sigh and lift on a little dance of breeze, perhaps something American Indian, up moves instead of stamping. Hingey creaks leak from fibrous junctions, twig to branch to trunk, still pliant with monsoon rain. Leaves begin to turn, as if each one has photosynthesized itself a sun, now rolling to expose its pale and trembling belly to the little winter of the night.