September (Excerpt from a Longer Work in Progress)

How little do we dream or notice on sere days

when clarity seems paramountly attainable

the moment when shadows have overgrown the noon mark

and we have entered the dusk of the year.

Just cresting the horizon

the shade creeps toward the river’s mouth

like the Tenth Plague to take our Firstborn.

Soon sharp outlines will melt into obscuring haze

Clouds like mountains roil,

to make the morning midnight.

Now we see for the first time

that the infinite blue is a veil.

We can never look at it again without remembering

the day the very sky lied to us.