The sun drops low and the day closes clean. Work is finished. The light goes soft, then gone. Time for chow. Another one that held. I have walked through more of these than I can count, most of them ordinary and complete, so many they blur into one long stretch of ground. It is the other kind that stays sharp. The ones that did not finish the way they should. They used to sit heavy when the sky turned red. They do not sit as heavy now. The days that worked outnumber the ones that broke. The ones that broke grow quieter each time the sun goes down. I still know they happened. They just do not own the evening the way they used to