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The color of dusk is the amber deposited at the bottom of the oak barrel, and the last ray of light is as sticky as honey, slowly seeping in through the cracks in the porch. There is the sweet scent of wet soil and decaying honeysuckle in the air. That sweetness is overripe from the roots, carrying the weight of memory. The old man was sitting in a rocking chair, with the blanket on his knees half off. His fingers hung in the air, trembling slightly, as if he were touching the back of a mule that no longer existed. Frogs croaked from the swamp in the distance, one after another, as if they were counting the blood and oaths swallowed by the land. He saw that time was not a river, but countless layers of wings-some dove gray, some crow black-that flapped simultaneously, raising up old dust and wisps of baby hair. The granddaughter ran across the porch in her bare feet, the wooden boards groaning slightly. Her blond hair shimmered like cornrows, and her ankles were speckled with fresh mud. The sight made his throat tighten. Sixty years ago, another girl ran like this. Her footprints had already been turned into clay by the rain, but the moment she started running was forever mixed into the air, and every breath reopened that afternoon. The rocking chair continued to rock back and forth, its creaking sounds blending into the tapestry of cicada chirping. He closed his eyes and felt all yesterday rising from the cracks in the floor, wrapping the present moment softly. When the darkness finally spread up the stairs, there was something like a smile at the corner of his mouth. The twilight plated him into a soft bronze statue, but deep in the copper, there was still soft flesh.