There are evenings when the land does not glow.
It burns quietly.
The fog doesn’t hide it.
It reveals what the day was holding back.
Light in winter is not generous.
It is selective.
It touches only what is ready.
The fields sink into shadow.
The forest holds its breath.
And somewhere between smoke and horizon,
the last warmth settles into the earth.
Nothing dramatic happens.
No applause.
No perfect symmetry.
Just a reminder
that even the lowest sun
still knows how to reach.
six-blocks 