Gaussian Flare

It was a temperate, easy twilight. The sun had disappeared almost entirely beyond the western mountains. Only the most ethereal of hues were now painted on the belly of the sky. The dark ocean blue of the heavens; the thick purple crowned blues that wrapped the broken and myriad canopy of clouds. And, off in the west, warmed with a splash of gold, the delicate blues of light's final bastion.

Beneath this painting the trees all around spoke softly in their evening voices. With hushed but hurried sentences they recounted the day's events. Some were friends, laughing and thrashing the air in their mirth. Some were lovers, caressing each other's boughs and creating an even more passionate melody. Sweet nothings elicited by the cool, casual wind. In their divers and distinct voices they babbled in a ceaseless chorus, filling the world with sound underneath the failing twilight.