Sorrel sun

Amber embrace from the slipping sleepy sun, heading westward over the lip of my world.

Dancing motes of little illuminated lives jiggle up and down over the gossiping grasses.

Jackdaws hastily discuss their day, interrupting each other rudely whilst still stalking the meadows, wings folded neatly.

The backlit sorrel is meadow embers, a fire without flames, warmth with no heat. 

And I linger in the liminal last moments, pining for a summer still here, but one I can tell is already wandering away.