Naomi Washer '12
In the evening it fit to sit upon the sill, with feet tapping against the chipped, white siding of the house. It was warmer in the daytime now; we weren’t wearing sweaters anymore. I dug my fingernails into thick orange skin and peeled, peeled. Juice dripped on my hands while a settled quiet overtook the street. From my perch on the low windowsill, the street seemed a moving painting in progress, detached from anything my toes or fingers could step on or touch. Silhouettes made their way down the road, each footfall a drop of paint from an unseen hand. Night was settling gently, a welcome change from winter’s cold, black cape, which tossed itself over treetops and secured its strings tightly before we could speak to allow it. Now, in the evenings, it was warm to sit snuggly in the window, watching the sky’s soft blue brushstrokes; watch them fade. I tossed orange seeds to the ground and dreamt of magic trees in Haitian folktales.