The night is coming, slowly,
as long as a parson's speech.
The fields are reticent and cling
to the fading sun like addicts.
It's too soon to give it up.
The trees shake,
a breeze whispers some gossip
about the dark to them, girlish anticipation quakes
through their leaves.
The sheep raise their coin slot eyes to the sky,
seeing, but not seeing,
knowing enough to disapprove of the field's actions.
The daytime sky has given up,
shackled and shuffling
toward its inevitable conclusion.
The night may be a blanket, though,
not a chloroform-soaked rag.
If the fields can kick the habit,
the trees can get their facts straight,
the sheep can share their knowledge, and if
the daytime sky gets off for good behavior,
darkness' half nelson just might turn out to be a warm embrace.
The night a time for flights of fancy, until
the bright dawn arrives young and fresh
to kiss her dark brother on the cheek, and
kick start the day's engine once again.