The light is fleeing to the night
All that is left are the bones of trees
A skulking fenceline,
The faint breath of the moon,
Receding pastels of a summer day.
The hill beyond has turned its shoulder;
It slumbers, humped and heavy, a faint line.
Let it stop now so that the cherry will always
Be the spirit of movement, and a town’s light
Begin to sparkle and beckon.
The wind creeps in and a drape falls – darkness
And a dog calls – a high howl – and pulls tight on the chain, eyes wide and full of longing