Knowing no Better



Theirs was the only movement. Nothing else dared stir. Even with the sun set, the heat was oppressive, thick. Their silhouettes cut lazy swoops in the evening sky, dark blades thrown silently into the late August heat. Knowing no better, he called the birds night hawks. It suited their graceful rising. Like loosed souls, he watched them be carried, upward, into the rose and gray blooms, the cicada singing their passing.

Night hawks, he would call them, knowing no better.