Reflections at Twilight

I sat out on the porch swing after the sun had gone down, alone save for an untalkative baby sister. It was a melancholy evening. Not really mournful, but it had a wistful kind of sadness. The wind seemed to speak of it, while the trees listened, ever moving yet ever fixed in their place. It was overcast: the grey clouds diffused the light and softened the shadows. Green lights twinkled slowly all around. Fireflies. They heard the wind too. The night held something of the sadness of the elves, the sadness for that which passes and cannot be retrieved. I could feel strongly the flowing of time. But just as strongly I felt that I was not of time. I am like the trees: always changing, always moving. But ever fixed, standing still while years and time itself blow past. Time flows, worlds pass, ages are forgotten: yet the human soul lives on.