A large drop of sun lingered on the horizon and then dripped over and was gone, and the sky was brilliant over the spot where it had vanished, and a torn cloud, like a bloody rag, hung over the spot of its departure. Dusk crept over the sky from the eastern horizon, and darkness crept over the land from the east. Soon it got darker, a grapy dark over tangerine groves and long melon fields; the sun the colour of pressed grapes, slashed with burgundy red, the fields the colour of love and undiscovered mysteries. The pale stars were sliding into their places. The whispering of the leaves was almost hushed. All about them was still and shadowy and sweet. It was that wonderful moment when, for lack of a visible horizon, the not yet darkened world seems infinitely greater - a moment when anything can happen, anything he believed in.
