That purple-ing right as the sun sets—
right as that last magenta is just going. 
I picture the colors changing minimal
and flat like a modern Broadway show
of that childhood field: cardboard
standees of a barn, a yellow brick house,
trees on casters—
tobacco and corn in neat rows. 
I can try to place us there like characters.
The fireflies flicker like special effects. 
Noises of bugs playing their sleepy orchestra.