The Last Periwinkle of a Sunday Evening

The lamps of the fireflies, lemon yellow, sting the darkened blades whence they rise. A moment, a flash, a wink, yellow on black wings. To the sound of windchimes clattering, to the flash of heat lightning in a bank of periwinkle cloud.

Flash. The deck illumines. A heavy breeze gasps. The windchimes clang; the cars wipe their sighs across the street. Timidly, behind the curtain of oaks and maple trees, glows amber lamplight, the eyelash-blades thin with navy blue outlines.

Above the line of the trees light fades as the clouds go southeast. A pop of thunder knocks once, twice and dwindles.

Blue-white flash. The air tastes of rain and the gray deck. The tang of flowers hovers. Through an open window comes the tones of a fight. A man’s voice, red and round, murmurs angrily; the knives of her voice slice through the gloom he issues. White flash. The fireflies cover their lamps.

A greenblack hiss goes through the pine tree. Flash of lightning. A gust sweeps down and hits the deck. Her voice peaks in anger.

The last periwinkle of evening fades from the sky. The clouds, bruised: patches of purple and dark blue. Flash. The light goes grayly through the bruise. Then a bolt: sideways across the sky. Now rumbles fill the area, the train horn cries, and fades away blue. Click-click. Bloooh. A cough. Lightning.

Heavy brooding night settles in, thick with clouds, choked with rain.

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