The evening wind rushes up the side of the ravine
And whips through the line of Yew and Hickory at the edge of the ridge
The sleeping trees there are bent and cold
Below, the houses – red brick and white frame
Keep the neat lines made by carpenters and masons long ago
And the ancient oaks and sycamores in the old lawns
Stretch their arms skyward, above the new shadows
And into the bright bath of the day’s last light
As if ecstatic.
In only moments
The sun will drown below the mountain to the west
And light will splinter into violet and gold above that far ridge.