Dusk in the Lens

My purple legs carried me up the crossbeam of the wooden patio table, drawn by an arch of smooth, polished amber. A pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses lay resting across the sunlit cedar grain. Approaching on quiet feet, I stopped before the dark, curved lens. Instead of the blinding noon glare, the glass held a calm, dusky reflection of the oak branches swaying above. I leaned forward and gently tapped the folded temple with my chin. It shifted with a tiny, dry click against the wood. When the dark frame settled, I took a soft step back, letting my broad wings settle flat across the warm slats to keep the shaded reflection company.