Friday Still (the non-political)

The transformation is only just noticable.
Feeling the day turn into night.
Now only a soft shade of pink to remind us of the earlier day.
We can see the clouds now for their true selves, their shapes, their subtle movements: No longer distracted by their brilliant reflection of the long gone sun...
The banana leaves accept the night easily, liquidly trusting the cool breeze.
In moments the valleys will disappear making way for the silent theatrics of lightning bugs
Accompanyed faithfully by the music of crickets growing ever louder in competition with the enduring bassline of evangelicals.
Along with dry wood burning in stoves is the faintest, imaginable
scent of coffee flowers.