Twilight.

Between the light and the dark we walk. In the sky a cloud like a fiery dragon catches the last of the sun. The field is soft with tall grass, green, dark. We spring and run through the jungle grass in the gloaming light.
A badger runs across the next field, startled by the dog and us, two cats, ginger bright in the lost light of day. He stops and spies from a bracken bush, black and white mask face clear in the dimness.
The light falls more from the day and the stars come out, a band of distant fire across an ink blue sky and it rains falling stars. The Perseids are here again
Some people think that the falling stars are heaven crying for the death of a saint. We think they are a magic fireshow against a cloth of dreams.