Time's Distillation

Early August night. Clouds are red from encroaching autumn. The sky is gray, the color of indecision. I breathe. Headlights in the distance round a corner, onto my straight road. Exhalation. Trees rustle against the sky, the apathetic heavens. Grass crunches under the paws of running dogs. Once green, now yellowing from heat. Rhythm. I close my eyes. The red clouds melt into blackness. A moon sees everything.