Late clouds sighed deeply under a
the hands of a yellow sun,
as day pressed forward to dusk, clearing the table
for night and its curtains of dark to silently descend.
Breezes dance without concern between
arms of crooked branches.
A silver moon opens on meadows,
shedding release to paths now open.
A balance of warm and cool air hovers
above the dew and sleeping insects.
Night is the tree without fruit, like a home
cleared of voices.
Dawn arrives, chasing out evening shadows.
Roger Singer 