the sun slips
deep into the horizons creases
a half-circle orb of light pulsating
gleaming and half tucked into the landscape
it burrows itself into the tree line, the folds of land
drilling deep gold into each seam of being
it peppers skin with flecks of light
delving into self, too
how transformative, of evening, to do this
To be this
It’s 4:27 and the mid winter sun has never felt warmer
in the seconds before darkness
breathing has never felt brighter.
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