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.








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