Dusk In the woodlands

Beauteously Lush & Poetic

Dusk drifts in on violet feet,

soft as a baby's breath

on the moss‑green stone.

The last birds fold their music,

tucking daylight into their wings.

Between the pines, a quiet unfurls~~

a slow exhale of the earth itself.

Here, even shadows seem to listen

for what the sun feels too shy to say.

And in that dimming gold,

the world feels briefly held,

as though night is not an ending

but a gentle hand closing a book.

It is dusk... and the mourning dove’s whispery, panting melody echoes through the woodlands .

They screech like demons, as the woodpecker and a scold of jays fight for birdfeed

Nearby, other birds call out: the rust-colored robin - the vibrant red-yellow finch, the spotted towhee, and the green-gold siskin with its mournful, one-note squeal.

My heart skips its beats, reaching towards these refrains - which I picture being played on fifes and piccolos carved from old bones.

Darker, More Hauntingly

The woodlands swallow the light,

one trembling ember at a time.

Branches stiffen into silhouettes,

their fingers black against the dying sky.

A chill threads through the undergrowth,

carrying the scent of endings.

Dusk is a quiet requiem here ~~

a slow tolling of unseen bells,

calling the day to its grave

while the forest stands witness,

solemn, ancient, unblinking.

Negligibly, Almost Prayerlike

Dusk settles.

Leaves fall to silence.

A lone wind

beckons the sun.

In the dimness,

the forest bows -

in gratitude

for one more turning

of the light.