In these last moments before twilight descends
and the round glowing sun bows once, twice,
then slides behind the shadows of the giant oak,
the singing, twittering, calling of birds fills the air
with observations, instructions, evening prayers.
Are they drawing in the tender approach of night,
or holding back the last embrace of light?
Their conversations are echoed in the laughter
of children when a blue striped ball
sails high in a neighborhood yard.
A crush of soft rose spreads along the edge
of the horizon, staining the sky with a lavender haze.
Dusk blurs the lines of telephone poles,
and smudges the edges of trees
as birds tuck their heads under the wings of night.
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