The sky

turns to liquid

fire, splashing

molten color

across a horizon

already bleeding

the burning shades

of Earth’s passion.

clouds,

like the slowly floating

creatures of the

darkest ocean,

drift across the sky,

alive, illuminated

by the reaching rays

of the dying sun.

The softest shades of

reds and oranges,

yellows and pinks,

purples and blues

blend gently together,

the final notes

of a uniquely

touching symphony

ringing in

eerie beauty 

in an empty theatre.

The midday glory

of the sun,

its cruel power

In pillars of unforgiving

light, blinding

and terrible,

is forgotten as

it sinks to a mere

scratch upon the horizon,

still bright,

a rippling orange wave,

but more mellow,

tamed by the cool

of the darkening sky.

that make up

the intricate

weaver’s web

of God’s

constellations,

a spray of freckles

across the inky

nose of the newly 

born Earth.

A new verse is written

in the song of the cooling

of the air,

the softening breath

of the sky;

crickets begin their call,

sending their voices in

a melancholy cry of

loneliness, the beauty

of darkness

Experienced alone.

The bitter tones,

like the acidic taste

of walnuts before ripening,

of birdcall drifts away

like a dream, leaving in its

echo a blank ledger for

the words, the 

crooning voices of the

creatures of darkness to

write their own concerto,

To add their rich, deep

serenade to the

warcry of the very

Earth, the dirt,

the roots that crawl

toward the surface.

Darkness fills the lungs

of nature,

suffocatingly sweet,

the perfect, 

As the sun

deepens its final bow,

the world becomes quiet,

whistles of soft wind

through dancing grass

the only applause

for its nightly performance.

The symphony of

the Time of Light 

has finished,

its cacophony of

harsh trilling of insects,

of shrill birdsong and

the Insufferable chatter

between the trees,

groaning of old age

and thirst 

concluded, its

timpani dying along

with the scattering of

The sun’s final

blood across the sky

in ever darkening rivulets.

Long awaited silence.

From the last droplets 

of the blood of

the melting sun,

like a phoenix

arises a beauty

indescribable in the

warm pallet of day,

painted only from

the shades of the space

that lies behind one’s

eyes, removed from color,

removed from light.

The sky crawls

with the

shimmering silver 

scarab beetles

slow 

death:

drowning

in undisturbed serenity,

eyes slowly closing

to become one

with the black of

Nighttime.