April 13 sunset

I caught her through the window. The stained sky hours after sunset. Like gently pressing a soaked teabag against the side of the mug with a spoon. Not quite ready to leave yet. Just lingering in colour – a little longer.

Angelic pink blotches stand there – lackadaisical and lukewarm. Unapologetic. Unconcerned. Barely bowing their heads to years of daily use.

An effortless exhibition. Yet discreetly determined: like the last four miles of a marathon.

Rinse and repeat – but the magic remains. Altered every evening. The kettle boils; and there’s always a unique slice of me in the sky.

Since we didn’t choose to be here, aren’t we lucky to witness it?