Josiah Miller sits on the porch at 7:30 PM. Every day. 365 days a year. For 40 years now. Watches the sunset.
Sarah brings tea (mint, homegrown). Sits beside him. Silent. (Married 38 years. Silence isn't emptiness. Silence is a conversation where everything's already been said.)
Tonight's sunset is orange. Yesterday's was pink. Day before — red. Tomorrow will be different. Josiah has seen roughly 14,600 sunsets. None repeated.
Bessie stands in her stall chewing hay. Cat Moses lies on the step. Chickens long since roosted. Children inside (older ones reading, younger sleeping). World — quiet, warm, right.
Josiah doesn't think about God in this moment. He isn't praying. He's just watching. But if asked 'what is prayer?' — he'd point at the sunset and say: 'That.'