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  • Writer's pictureSpencer

6/22/19: Summer

Updated: Jul 26, 2020

It’s 9:00pm on a warm summer night in the northwest. The remnant of the sun’s light is marching downward over the horizon, outlining the trees against a fading orange sky. The street lights have just come on and everyone is in their home. Along the aisles of houses a few lights shine through their windows. It’s so quiet. The stars begin to come forward and sing their song to the world. They don’t have to do anything but be themselves. The air is crisp and smells of pavement and pine, both still cooling down from the coals of the day’s sun. Stillness, like standing on set after the curtain has been called and the theater clears out. You can walk right down the middle of the street as if it’s just for you. If words were spoken it could only be done in a whisper so as to not spook the quiet. 

And that’s what they’re doing. Whispering about the ways of the world. Wondering about the ways of the world.

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