Higher atmospheres veil the coming night in vaporous blues and dusty indigo. Frail stars and celestial bodies leak through the fading light.
By the time the sun has settled atop a grass stem too thin to carry anything else, the incredible depths of the sky open. Our galaxy tilts above the faint furnace-glow of sunset.
A scent of old dreams whispers from this image. Remote forebears understood twilight as portal magic, access to another realm, which begins where it ends.
Dare we listen to this slender flame caught in the throat of night? Its silence speaks for the universe. Its silence is the emptiness that bears the universe and its own emptiness.