Day sheds its skin. The low bass
of time moves daylight to its end.
Streets open their hands to my
arms and feet.
Low light. Last light puddles.
Dusk coughs a last breath.
Night paints faces with shadows.
Windows shut. Whispers find corners
where promises are broken.
Hats tip and collars rise. A cool breeze
ushers in a song of night and voices.
Roger Singer 