setting sun
Linda Crate
purple clouds stained the sky in pomegranate,
a bitter taste I’ve never cared for, I narrowed
my eyes against the citrine gold of the sun --
night was soon about to swallow me up in it’s
opaque beams of obsidian lit only with moon
silver and the fiery white of stars that are pale
candles of lantern light; so I flew to the refuge
of the house with it’s lights, shedding a few
colorful feathers in the process, but it was
worth it to gain the solace that only one’s own
room can provide, I looked out at the sunset,
watched it be swallowed slowly by the trees;
waved goodbye to a dear old friend, sorry that
I wouldn’t be able to see him until the morrow.