By John Grey
The whole of sunset resonates
on the small of a lake’s frozen back.
An odd design to this luminous third act:
through stands of trees,
for every street of light, ten blocks of shadow,
an occasional kindling bough
where a frigid leaf hangs on.
Large egret no longer
stalks cracks in the perimeter . . .
roosts high in bare forest headdress
with lowered head and wings.
The cricket hum, bullfrog belch
simmers down to ten thousand false alarms.
Up comes the moon, a great peel of white.
Wind dies, is air once more.
From bird beak to squirrel jaw to rabbit hutch,
the light, the warm, dissipates.
All seems motionless
as night goes through the motions
