The evening sun shines warm on my face while the breeze flitters with cold fingers against the back of my neck. The grass is tall and uncut, bright and luminous in the light of the low-lying sun, stirring and shivering in the cool currents of air. I sit in a nest of tall blades with a tree at my back, a small green and orange cloud of delicate leaves above me, rustling not only in the wind but with the fitful hopping and pecking of tiny brown birds with tiny black eyes, who seem to know a lot more than they say.

The flies land on everything, from my bare arms to the trembling blades of grass. The river just beyond me has begun to shimmer with the silver and black swirls cast by the angle of the day’s last sunshine. It seems to be rippling towards me as though I sat on the shore of a lake and not a riverbank. And all of a sudden, my paper is bathed in a blue shadow, which is simply the lack of yellow as the sunbeams slip behind the buildings and instant goosebumbs arise on my arms. All at once, we evening park dwellers reach for our cardigans and jackets, look about at the sudden change in light, tuck in our shirts and draw our limbs a little closer in on ourselves.

The hue of the grass is an entirely different green and the breeze seems a little more insistent now. The surface of the river has turned dark green and white, reflecting the sky above and the trees along the bank. Above me the birds still dance about in the sun, but the glow in the west is sinking quickly as the sun somewhere out of sight brings dawn to other lands, leaving the night to claim us. But in the first moments of the sweet liminal space between light and dark, I pull my legs in towards me, balancing my notebook atop my knees, and breathe in the grassy dusk air in thirsty gulps.

My sweater is thin and soon I will wander the cobblestone streets back to my sloping old flat and leave the park to the Spaniards. The twilight will deepen beyond my balcony window and the dinner din will echo in the streets below. Later I will slip into my jacket and go out to meet them. The contrast between my quiet afternoon writing time and the lively noche sevillana feels the same as the contrast between the night and day reflecting on the river.

Sweet river, what a faithful friend you have been; this is the hour I will miss you most.

The city itself is bright and beautiful at all hours, but perhaps I will miss it most at night, when the lanterns illuminate the alleys and the cathedral towers, and laughter and clinking glasses echo through the streets. A week more here before I leave and I miss you already. But tonight I join you.

With my chilly arms it’s time to pack up. Hasta luego, noche sevillana.