'So, it's lighter when we first get up, right?' I asked the historian. I can never remember. Fall back, as a metaphor, contains no clue as to light.
'Yes, and darker earlier,' he said. Clarifying the situation.
And yes, when we got up with an uncounted hour under our belts, it was lighter. I made waffles. The paper was late, probably because all that clock-wrangling had a discombobulating effect.
I put away all my cotton skirts. My airy shirts. The last of the sandals. Hung up the dark dresses, folded the wool cardigans into the chest.
The afternoon wore into a certain sighing and tumult of wind. The clouds and sun in a little contretemps of lessening light and thickening chiaroscuro. Around five, you could feel it, that falling.
Darker, I can already feel you, like a subtle infection. Like a coat too heavy for the actual weather. It's November, so I should be, but I'm not--I'm not ready.
But we're in for it, darker, ready or not, for colder and shorter and sharper. For coming out to the edge of the cave, taking a look, turning right back around. Settling into you, darker, coming right up to the edges and not being able to see past you, heavy veil, with a piercing of stars, planes waiting to trace their landing paths with light.
Just those, and a line of street lamps, arcing away. I'll pocket them: they'll be small candles to light for the duration.
It's bedtime, I guess. But, darker: it's seemed that way since five.