this evening

I find it peculiar that we have so much consciousness, and yet so little memory of any of it.
This evening a hot dry wind is blowing high cloud in from the west. A strange, thunderous light, grey-yellow, makes the evening feel unusual. I won’t remember this. I don’t remember any particular previous occasion when it happened, and yet it has a familiar quality. Of course I have experienced it before, but there’s no record of where or when, neither in my mind nor in writing. A posher writer – a less honest writer – might call it sulphurous, but I’ve seen sulphur and to be frank, sulphur looks like cheese, not like light at all.
This evening light is ubiquitous, flat. The breeze is not fresh. And so the diffused light settles over all, while the birches hiss dryly on the breeze.