There is a hour at the end of the day when the light goes sideways, when it stops being overhead and becomes something you have to lean into.
I noticed it again last evening from the back steps, the way it caught the edge of the fence and made the wood look like it was lit from within, like it had been waiting all day to show me that.
The neighbor’s dog was barking at something or at nothing. A crow crossed the whole sky in four seconds. Somewhere, meat was going onto a grill and I could smell the smoke before I heard the sizzle.
This is not a dramatic hour. Nothing is decided here. No one is born or buried in this particular light.
And still I stood there longer than I meant to, my coffee going cold in my hand, watching the shadow of the oak tree stretch itself out across the yard like it had somewhere important to be.
I think some things only get said in the leaving. I think light knows this better than we do.