When evening falls
the voices grow softer,
as if the world
were folding itself into silence.

The sky turns
somewhere between blue and nothing,
and windows begin to glow like eyes
that flicker once
before closing.

Trees stand still,
not from weariness,
but from knowing
nothing more needs to happen.

A bird calls in the distance,
not to be heard,
but to let something go.

The day retreats
into breath and memory,
and the night waits
without urgency.