After a Monsoon at Dusk

The silence is deep enough that you can hear the plants grow and the heart leave footsteps in silt. The pinesap and sagebrush fill the air. A lone crow or dove whoo calls and breaks. The white-jade of sage reaches in delicate tendrils above the dark green. Little bulbs of flowers rise like drops in shocks of white, yellow, lavender, orange and red. The blond grasses shoot out of dark roots and hold rain like pearls. Sounds envelop you in the silence, such that the pack of wolves seems to be in the sunset instead of in the purple darkening East. The soil grows alive in hillocks of fungus, moss and succulents. Pine sprigs hold droplets underneath, gleaming spiders' eyes in the last grey of twilight. Night falls like feathery down.