At dusk, the deer watch
from the far edge of the field,
poised to slip into the trees
crowded behind them. Bats
flit across the open air, scraps
of darkness torn from the hem
of night. The sun is swallowed
by a puddle of wax from which
the full moon rises, a glob
of molten glass at the end of
a glassblower’s pipe. Shaggy
treetops mark the horizon,
a thick black line drawn
in crayon. The day shrugs
off its bright garments,
hangs them in the shadows,
and slips naked under the cool
sheet of evening to rest.