The wind and the sun,
Dry heat and the rattle of falling leaves
lull the night,
with its wisps of starlight.
I hear the stealth of night coming
from the swaying trees,
beneath the bending sky,
and almost I can hear the crack of twigs.
Listen to the blue smear fading,
it barely cries out,
only with the echo of a blackbird’s fussing,
the last pigeon clattering to rest.
One more day gone
into the dark drawer with the rest,
one more effort
to drink in the last notes of summer.
Here we are, ourselves alone,
in this silent room,
held in the palm of the hand
of something gentle and wild.