They watched the river slow-roll past, high sides of the banks in low of summer’s run, mud’s crack and peel where what once was covered dried and broke on August’s sun.
From the trees that lined high side of bank, crickets and cicadas called, and to the songs, in sporadic splash, fish struck at both, and grasshoppers too that fell and found themselves in float upon the water’s face.
Sky changed, fuchsia, fire-orange, and gold low on horizon’s line where sun was newly set; and from the glory, lavenders and violets shown; first’s lighter shading into deeper dark from which the stars appears; a universe wholly unseen in blinding of the sun.
Neither spoke, but both thought the same—the need and beauty in both day and night, to see in one what other hides.
Night setting into deeper dark, stars blurred on moving water’s flow, point of lights still static on—what water could not carry on.
Respite from the August heat, they found comfort in the cool and listened, still, unmoved from place in listen and gaze on night that ushered in transition of the seasons.
Unlike the stars, autumn was nearer than it seemed.