Behind the clouds everything has warmed to honey. In the middle of it the sun hangs round, and light that barely gets through the thick cloud layer spreads to the ridgeline at the bottom of the frame. The tree on the left stands straight, nearly all its leaves gone.
The tree on the right pushes a thick branch out past the edge of the frame. Beneath it two black benches sit without facing each other, and a thin orange band lies along the horizon. It is the hour just before sunset, when the day's warmth loosens for the last time.
Light like this is not hot. Lift your face and your eyes half close to avoid the source, and the warmth on the back of your neck brings your shoulders down a hand's width. The soles of your feet are on cooling earth, and that cold and the warmth left on your back part inside the body.
The breath lengthens a little without being urged. The hands come out of the pockets and open on their own.
While you look at the two empty benches, the mind that hurried all day briefly loses somewhere to go.
Today it would be fine to move a few steps to a window the light comes into and just stand there for about five minutes. You only need to watch the order in which the back of the shirt warms and then the backs of the hands follow. Turn your toes toward the window and the surface the light reaches widens.
You may close your eyes or leave them open. If five minutes feels long, stopping at three is fine too.
You can move the same five minutes to the evening dishwashing. While the light coming through the window touches your wrist, check how much force has gone into your jaw. Whether the height of your shoulders comes down at all while the sound of water continues, just watch that.
The same observation works under the lamp before sleep. It is all right not to check what has changed.
Even after the sun goes below the clouds, the black benches stay lukewarm for a while.
