It is a glorious spring evening. There is hardly a whisper of wind, the turbines are at rest. A deep red sun is sinking through the forest, now between the trunks under the crowns of the trees, the clouds above like red-hot coals.
How can I explain such beauty, several times I've sat down to write about it and nothing has come. Is there such a condition as “bloggers block”? I know that I am not always very outgoing verbally feeling that I have little to offer, better as a listener than contributor. Perhaps I am a reader rather than writer.
As we turn for home a few of the streetlights are already alight, confused by the change in time and quick progression of the seasons, I sympathise with them.
The last dregs
3 hours ago