Hugh Kilpatrick

Sunset.

Sunset. He pushed aside the splitting timber gate and walked the barren path to his front steps. He stood before the boarded windows of his house and decided to sit a while before going inside. The light at this time of the year, even with nothing much to fall on, reminded him of his childhood. The pink of the clouds, the rusty sky. The breeze swirling with metallic dust. Then, it had been seasonal. Now, it was permanent.