It's evening.
The sounds mingle.
Birds singing in the trees behind.
Chickens crowing.
People chatting as they walk along the road across the river.
Grain mills humming from off in the village.
Crickets chirping.
Boys shouting along the hills as they herded their cows.
The sun is going down.
Slowly.
Ever so slowly.
It's rays change from fiery red to pale yellow and peach.
The orange orb has dipped below the tree line on the hills far above the river.
Above the sky is blue but for the patches of bright golden clouds that spray across the wide expanse.
The dog turns his head to listen to the herd boys talking.
A bird lands close and flits about.
Everything is now bathed in a golden glow.
The distance has become a hazy blue.
A cool breeze makes bare skin chilly.
The grasses barely move in its wake.
The sky begins to turn a bright orange, its last vibrancy before becoming
nothing but the blackness of night.
The moon has yet to show its face above the tall pines.
She shivers.
The birds' songs lessen.
Small children can now be heard playing.
The cricket continues his repetitive tune and the sky darkens.
Gone is the vibrancy.
Pale colours again remain.
The crow is now the only bird still audible.
A harbinger of darkness.
The herd boys have covered impressive ground as their voices can be heard on the outskirts of the village.
Almost home.
The trees become nothing but silhouettes.
Their leaves dangling limply.
The first star can be seen, glittering above.
The sounds have lulled.
Gone is the light.
Gone is the day.
