My washed rags flap on a serious grey sunset.
Suppertime, a colder wind.
Leaves huddle a bit.
Kitchen lights come on.
Little spongy mysteries of
evening begin to nick open.
Time to call mother.
Let it ring.
Six.
Seven.
Eight - she
lifts the receiver, waits.
Down the
hollow distances are they fieldmice that scamper so drily.