At dusk, the breeze
blows gently through leaves
and the sun shines light orange
in a pale blue sky.
Everything is gentle, calm.
Even the birds; singing one last sweet song
before the great flutter of wings taking flight
a safe place to roost for the night.
The sun is at once more and less
than it might be at noon.
The sky at once bigger and bluer
and yet stiller,
as if waiting for the onset of millions
of tiny pinpricks of light
and the pale rocky face of the moon
that keeps sentry over all
Dusk is the gentle last song of day,
the last orange burst of flame,
before night tenderly
snuffs it out.