Black-feathered birds (or had they been charred by the sun?) swung about the soft pink sky in circles like toys of a mobile above a crib, affixed by unseen strings and moving aloof and careless as the slow, drawling tune of a music box. The sun melts red onto the branches of trees, the hillsides, the roofs of houses, the street, and it melts into the dark mountain line like a brilliant orb of water, gilding the contour of the mountains before rolling down the other side and lying stagnant in the valley bowl. In windows people move quietly, in the sobriety of the ashen dusk light. Soundless in this impressionist scene. Hills on the green golf course like the bellies of dogs shaved to the skin. My legs are weary and I think that I shall melt too, that, red soaked, my being will diffuse into the hazy colors of the air, and my heart will be hung like dew upon the branches and the hillsides and the roofs of houses.