A soft stripe of pink kissed the top of the Sandias at eight-fifteen.
A cloud floats lighted behind a tree laid bare by droughts of yore.
Magenta, yellow, cyan — eight-twenty bedtime colors.
Bats, like the Yeti, impossible to get a clear shot.
Clouds wrestle with the moon, in a chokehold at eight-fifty.
Nebulized at nine oh three.
Nine-twenty-five — an Orb Spider's weave glistens under the light of my torch.
Thirty seconds later a scurrying Solifugae is stopped, frozen, blinded by the light.
A final distraction at nine-thirty as a bullfrog poked his head above a foggy bottom, lighted from above in the murky waters below.