The Gentle Last Song

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

sleeping things.


Dusk is the gentle last song of day,

the last orange burst of flame,

before night tenderly

snuffs it out.