It’s like a tiptoe.
That book we read at night.
In a room that’s dark, but for the glow of a reader, everything’s still and the day’s chores are done. A minute for the brain to shift reality. Then, on cue, characters find their places in the plot, and slowly start up where they left off, with footsteps, stealthy footsteps. And their flaws, and missteps.
They creep along, close to the ground. And stop long enough to peak out, from the shelter of a field that lies quiet, below a sky that hasn’t changed yet, from evening to night. It’s July, and the damp air lingers with the smell of dirt, and vegetation, and tension. They rise up, so they’re almost standing, and stare past the tall stalks, into a clearing. And then stunned and silent, they fall back. Without even time to digest and recalculate their surroundings, they hear words in the distance. Far-off words, words that should be silent and mysterious, hang with invisible clarity in the air overhead, in that place where hope evaporates to sky.
etikser 
Beautiful description.
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Thank you.
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Beautiful photo and prose
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Thank you.
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Reading in bed at the end of my day is one of my joys in life. What a wonderful description of the silent awakening of a book opening, coming to life and eventually being closed to be put back on the night stand.
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Thanks!
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I forgot to tick the Notify via email of new posts on your site, sorry! 😂 Nice photo. ❤️
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Thanks!
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Love this .Thanks for sharing.
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Thank you so much.
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Beautifully expressed. 🙂
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Thanks so much.
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Oh, I like this! Brilliantly put 🤩
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Thanks so much!
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