The sun is gone,
Its last rays cut by rising western hills,
The blue lake prepares for night.
This moment wrapped in quietness,
A gentle breeze to stir the rustling cottonwoods nearby,
The sky a friendly tent of fading hues,
And bird calls signaling the twilight hour,
With song of locust adding to a symphony of eve.
The sounds of folks are also near,
Of motor boat, of auto, and of plane,
And human voices near and far;
But not enough to break the spell.
The radio’s thin fingers reach out to keep
A pulse beat of the world,
But even this faint voice in word and song,
It likewise does not hold back this rhapsody.
The sun is gone,
The day almost complete,
The turning earth moves eastward on its way,
And waits to call the canopy of stars
To launch the quiet night.
(August 1968)