By Emma Giancola

Though summer reigned at the time, the air had a slight chill to it as it grew into night. Lavender painted through the sky. One hem shone with rusty orange and muted pink as the circle of gold that oppressed during the day retreated behind the crest of the mountain; indigo dyed the other, as the light had already seeped from there, leaving only the deep purple-blue of night.

The grass beneath my toes felt cold, damp. The receding light left it looking deep blue-green instead of the bright emerald of day. I gently pushed myself off from the cool dirt, leaning back onto the ropes, worn and white, that cut into my arms. My head found a divot and I laid back, looking at the twilight sky and the darkening tree limbs that encircled it like a crown. The air smelled of fireflies.

It provided a nice place to think, a nice place to relax, a nice place to speak softly to myself words for no one to hear. No one replied, save the gentle swishing of the trees and the occasional squeak of the hammock. Every now and again a breeze would cut through, adding a soft whisper to the night.

The stars, small and twinkling, began to emerge. Specks of light, more than I had ever seen in one spot, dotted the deep, dark purple.

Eventually, the chill set in fully and the bugs emerged. Riddled with regret, I retreated to the house.