A prose poem about liminal spaces and the end of the day.
Next Moment
The sunlight shone all day, streamed through the frigid air, past the windows, to warm the couch and the dog on the couch and me on the couch near the dog. And then towards the end of the day, together, the dog and I, headed out into the after-sundown but before-night-falls, out into that slivered moment. The center had not shifted enough, really, from one to the other to mourn the fading color. For the textures, now, are brilliant in their chiaroscuro, bold enough for that moment to cause us, even the dog, to stand and listen and wait. We feel the pull of the next moment into the next moment.