golden hour photography

The sun is setting on a sticky July eve 
like a pad of butter slides down an 
ear of sweet corn, seemingly slow 
but suddenly…plops. 

You can see the colors painted 
in the sky as if a young girl obsessed  
with ponies, princesses, and cotton candy 
chose the colors herself. 

The final whistle of the community pool 
has blown, signaling that yet another 
dog day of summer has concluded.  Children 
with their fingers and toes as wrinkly as a  

California raisin race home to see what  
their moms made for dinner. 
You see that setting sun among its canvas 
of pastels, although shielded by 200 year-old 

Oak trees, a water tower, and the tallest 
“building” in town, a grain storage siloh.  
It’s too pretty to pass up a better look, 
You drive west to get out of town and 

into the nothingness that is assumed about 
the countryside. 
But that wiley sun is too fast for you. 
Between the crowds racing home

after community league baseball, the children 
pedaling their legs to exhaustion, 
and that darn singular stoplight, 
it’s gone.   

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