The oil of dark turned quiet.
The gears of dusk pulled
kneeling clouds to lay their
praying hands over valleys
where evening oddly fits
like a puzzle.
The sun yields to a purple sky.
Flags of death witness
horizons loss of youth.
A cool brush of wind closes in around.
Fields accept curtains of mist;
the baptizing is wide and wet.
A covering of rest sooths the land
into darkness.
The fields breathe goodnight.
Roger Singer 