Things you find in the skin of another's neck, or else in the grass...

I'm fairly certain that the light of the setting sun on late summer's grass tells a story older and thicker than many told tragedies.  It's something like this: 

His face gives up its look.  Likely in the matter of a moment, it stepped down from the train of expectations, let go of their shared momentum, and abandoned itself to the present.  His face, he, softened.  And, he drank in the sadness of the day's almost end.  Completely.  For, this is the time of day when one typically pitches a tent against the coming darkness, pours out a drink or pulls on a sweater, conspires to laugh with friends, share a meal, or at least takes up an already begun book from the side table.  Not tonight.  His face became a defenseless landscape.  And, sorrow is there told...and held open.  It, he, is beautiful.  For the moment.  Tomorrow, the sun will be clear, and the call will come and he will in all likelihood accept.  

That is the second-hand tragedy, the sound and the fury, and the color of the leaves of grass at dusk.  I'm fairly certain of this.