The day is waning now. Dusk settles. The cement outside my door is cold underfoot. The grass is cold and expectant of frost. Birds no longer fossick in the grass, stalking the dry, warm earth.
Now they sit in the high, fragile branches of trees. They contemplate the setting sun. The branches are lit by the gold fingers of the sun. A flame with days end.
Four birds, small enough to cup in your palm alight, one after the other in the top branches of the tree outside my door. They all look west, towards the setting sun. What do they see? They are as small as sparrows, but their beaks are a little longer, their bodies less plump. One of them lets out a shrill little exclamation. Others preen and look about.
