Joe shuffles to water’s edge to see the sunset. He’s retired, widowed, nearly broke.

A pastel sky bleeds away into twilight, into grayscale, into an impossible inkiness.

He’s alone, except for the loons who call out from the terrible void. Joe suddenly understands what they’re saying but doesn’t dare answer.

Hawkelson Rainier lives in the American Midwest. He dabbles in prose and poetry from time to time.