wind picks up and sifts through the golden woods.
The tree trunks bronze and redden, branches
on fire in the heavy sky that flickers
with the disappearing sun. I wonder
what I owe the fading day, why I keep
my place at this dark desk by the window
measuring the force of the wind, gauging
how long a certain cloud will hold that pink
edge that even now has slipped into gray?
Quickly the lights are appearing, a lamp
in every window and nests of stars
on the rooftops. Ladders lean against the hills
and people climb, rung by rung, into the night.
-- by Joyce Sutphen