Dusk

There are different kinds

of crying.

There is the terror

of dusk,

the sun’s acquiescence to

closing darkness,

the starkness of the emptied trees

in silhouette

as it goes, second by second, deeper

into the unknown.

There is that relief, and that

hollowness,

and that awareness,

that puncture

of sudden comprehension, when

the sun

finally finishes

its descent,

when the blackness

settles in

and you can bear it

no longer,

when you have no choice but to

turn your face

the other way and wait

for the dawn.