It is early evening. The sun has reversed its rays
from the west to east side of the landscape.
The predawn now the twilight
and that equally strong sense of an ending
beginning without the fanfare of first light.
It is a melancholy mood. Subdued like a monk
lost in prayer streaming into meditation
where nothing is asked for because all
has been given. A slow, shuffling dance
of ecstasy, that silent promise of tomorrow,
the refrain that never changes though
the verses never remain the same.
It is near the time of gloaming.
Byron Hoot
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