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Weekly Contest #272
The sun has gone down. The air is becoming cold. It is dusk and the colors of the trees and the ragged shrubs underneath the trees have begun to dissolve into gray. The afternoon’s palette of lime and mossy greens and the once warm and grounding browns of the barks of things has cooled to my touch as I steady myself against this tree and then the next. The air is clammy. I turn my hot, damp face to the right and then to the left and each way I feel a coolness, like an anxious hand resting on my cheek. I left the lake too late. But the smell ...
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