The gravel street was warmed by the rusting sunset
hours ago. Now, lit up by bulbs and sparks,
we sit with it and watch the opposite's onset;
silent, bound to the tune of a meadowlark.
The sap-filled tree stands, the hidden sun
heats the splintered wood of the bench's tired frame.
A light spits forth, and so the ritual is done.
On the whispered lake now shines a thin flame
that shimmers upon the rolling waves. We watch it grow,
averting our eyes from that crack of light
that burns our eyes if stared at. Wind now blows
away the clouds to announce the end of night.
And we too must part like the solemn clouds
destined to be caught by light and crowds.