It's dark earlier, often before I'm back from wherever I've been for the evening, and soon the weather will start the transition to cold and damp, and too dark to be out here in the park behind my flat.
However, here I am for now, beneath the pinkening sky and wispy purple clouds. The breeze is chilly and I've got my hood up.
About twelve drunk people have just clattered up the hill with clinking carrier bags and high spirits, smelling of chips and alcohol. They had a dog, whom one of them just faked-out with a tennis ball.
"He totally fell for it!" he bellowed across the park, too loudly. The others cackled while the dog dashed through the long grass. It's quite likely that the dog is the soberist of them all, the designated responsible adult and voice of reason for the Famous... Twelve, chasing through the dusk for a tennis ball that isn't there. I feel your pain, buddy.
They've gone now, disappeared under the trees. They had a good time at least.
Summer moves fast. It doesn't seem long ago enough that I was out here for the first sunset of the season, watching the sun sink happily below the fresh green trees. Suddenly, in just a few short weeks of sunshine and showers, it's September and the season I call Keats's Fall is here.
A guy with a top-knot has just sparked up on the next bench along. A little burst of orange fire, the swoosh of a match, and then a cloud of sickly-sweet smoke drifts past.
It's more respectable than this usually, this park. I wouldn't want you to think it's all drugs and drink at dusk. Well I'm here for a start! Lit-up like a floating goon in the light of my phone, and swigging from my 500ml bottle of Irn Bru. I can hear children too, presumably over-spilling from a local barbecue.
The wind has picked up. Behind me the moon is round and bright, and in front of me the final colours of daytime are steadily falling away from the horizon, into the night.
I guess it's time for me to go too, then.
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