Horizon’s glow is vin rosé.
Ordered trees in a valley, melt
on pillows of field.
A bird trills, counts silence to ten,
then, repeats and seems to rest
those sinews of its warble.
A tractor scrapes a rectangle’s
shadowed southern edge, and I sense
an urge, an inner cry of ‘job done!’
A wasp picks at a fence post;
last gathering of nest wood; dry fold
of aging, like the bones of the village.
Restless, a white cat scouts hedgerow
for rustlings that may rise
with the moon.
A plane’s trail
is a gilded hyphen, a nick
in the empty dome that belittles
as I wait
for something inexplicable
that may or may not descend
with the dawn of tomorrow.
