As a child, I remember lying in bed watching the patterns on my bedroom curtains turning pink in the late Western sunsets of midsummer. I was meant to be asleep. As the room glowed like a fire ready to flare back into life, I used to practice singing every song I could recall. Some nights, I was still singing after dark.
I just watched the last blue fall from tonight's sky, waited til late before turning on the lamp. I won't need to do any singing tonight, but there's a poem flitting in me. It comes and goes, trying out phrases. It seems to like muttering to itself.
I am trying to do dictation.