Gone is the day, but the night is a ways off yet. It is that magic moment of ever-decreasing golden light that calls me to play a round of hide-and-seek.
Dusk.
One of my favorite words; I just like the sound. Stop and say it out loud. Slowly.
OK. So the sound of the word is no more special than it is written out. But imagine the smells of a summer dusk: growing corn, freshly threshed wheat, grass crushed by your bare feet. Close your eyes and hear the chirps, croaks and buzz of a summer evening. Feel the coolness of approaching night slowly climbing up from the ground dampened by the falling dew.
These make summer dusk euphoric for me.
These, and the memory that I excelled in hide-and-seek, if not in any other childhood game.
Where does dew fall from anyway? I never see it descend, but my mother sang about the dew of heaven falling on her.
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