The Golden Hour

December: the dregs of the day
dissolve behind rows of live oaks,
a cemetery of trees, naked

but for the moss falling away
like loose bandages. The two finches
you’ve tracked all afternoon

continue their chase, light from limb
to limb. You finish your wine
and begin another cigarette

as last light hits the tree line,
creating a canvas,
a veil of light,
the day’s death shroud.