Streetlight, candlelight, flicker, flicker, dim—a firefly magnifying in a halo of gold. Or perhaps it is only the light on the handlebars of a bicycle, blinking to the the soft clinking of shifting gears in the quiet indigo of nightfall. Indigo, lavender, bubblegum pink; it always amazes me how quickly night falls, how long each hour draws as I yearn for the warmth of dawn. But eventide has its own charm, its own quiet beauty caught in the redolent breeze of hours lost too quickly. The air is fragrant with the memories of afternoon rain, and heavy with weightless dreams of flames licking firewood. Hush, the night chorus is about to sing, fall off to sleep, the moon will soon rise to bathe your weary smile in silver light.