100 Words a Day 839

It’s a warm summer night, with still air. The sort where sound travels forever, but the sole sound is a symphony of woodnotes. The only movement in the night is a breeze so faint the only indication of its presence is the scent of verdant gardens below. Once the lights in the town below go out, looking into the night is as looking into the abyss. The remains of your late-night snack are on the table: olive pits, cheese rind, and a glass with a lick of wine dried at the bottom. A small bird lands on the narrow guardrail.