Shadows lengthen like spilled ink,

the air folds itself into a thinner silence.

Light frays at the edges—

amber, dust, a slow unraveling.

Trees hum in dry tongues,

their leaves half-memories of green,

half-promises of rust.

Time feels porous—

a sieve of cicada-song,

a breath that will not hold.

And somewhere in the field’s dim marrow,

the year pauses,

one hand still on summer,

the other already loosening.