Purple clouds, deepening into indigo silence as night begins to creep up from the east, and arch over,
sprinkling bits of light, sparkling specks in the sky.
And a light little breeze, cool and delicious plays with the tired grasses, warm from the sun.
The crickets sing softly.
A gentle coo from a bird here or there.
Full of noise, yet quiet.
Dark, yet rich with color.
Night begins to cover us, and hides the glare of blemishes and muffles the sound of mistakes until we can see nothing and can only hear our own thoughts. Can only know our own hearts.
And it stretches on and on, time standing still, and we relax, lulled by the stealthy passing of time. It tiptoes past us, unawares, until we wake to find ourselves in a new day. And what happened in the night? What did we miss in the dark, what did we lose in the meantime?
The night is indigo silence.