By Tyn Shenton
The Old Giant strains against the weight of the horizon, digging his fingers into the blue-red fold between nighttime and daytime, then pulling hard.
The movement is slow, but sure. There is no sound. It is like watching silk blow over silk by an open window.
We watch as he drags the night away from us, letting the Sun embrace the space and fill the sky with day.
Tomorrow the giant will return to do it again.
And the day after.
And the day after that too.
For as long as we can remember and for long after we are gone.
Nice alliteration. I submitted one last year with a similar subject and it was rejected.