The Last Hour of Light

Late afternoon, and the light goes soft.

You did not notice it happening. One moment the plain is bright and hard and flat. The next, everything has a glow on it. The grass. The dust in the air. The backs of the elephants walking slowly home.

Their skin turns gold. Their shadows get long. They do not hurry, and suddenly you do not want them to.

Then the clouds break and the sun throws rays down across the plains, long golden beams like a painting you would think was overdone. It is not overdone. It is just like that.

The air cools. The first evening birds start calling. Somewhere a vehicle engine fades away and leaves the silence behind.

And then the sunset. Red, glowing under the storm clouds, as if someone has lit a fire just below the horizon. The whole sky catches. For a few minutes it is too much to look at and too good to stop.

You do not talk. Nobody does.

Then it goes. Grey, then blue, then dark.

You drive back with the dust in the headlights and the warm air on your face.

Most days just end. Out here, they finish.