Evening Sounds

Garbled, scarcely audible sounds emanating from the rocks, way up on the cliffs, in the gathering darkness, with the brown brush jutting out between the cracks, with nothing being said below or in the nearby town, with the lights of the other village flickering in the late heat, as though fragments of the setting sun still remain, while across the ocean comes the purple step of night, which is seen from one of those things, a bus or a truck, with windows and the tendency to tilt over, careering across the hills, framing views of the ocean, of the rocky shore, of the mangled clouds, and picking up speed along the way, leading the passengers in the back to grumble and complain, but in garbled, scarcely audible voices – the voices, no doubt, of the dead.

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