by Akhila Pingali Jr Korpa The evening arrives early on moth-wings, crisp and shaded. We occupy the last dregs of light. You, sunk in your pages, and I, motioning in the dawn beyond your dipped head. It washes in, the pink of beetroot stains, of your eyes following a timeline not of here. I flick a parsimonious evening breeze off my cheek. It turns a page and out of the cuckoo’s mouth the morning crescendos. Echoes in your story wrap your figure black against the reeling d