Burning Bridges Like Matchsticks

There's a pine tree on the corner, silhouetted by the setting sun. The branches are long and ragged, and backlighting gives them the look of an afgan or a swatch of black lace. There's no warmth in the sun, not this late in the day, not this late in the season. We turn our faces towards it anyway, a dozen fleshy sunflowers waiting for our pots to be picked up and moved home.