Sundown

It turns the air the color of a wasps' wings,
and wind mulls about because it is soon to be
blind. Somewhere over the tree tops,
the traffic finds its way, and I think of them out there,
driving or flying or beginning a dinner.

I've slept all day, and now pacing back and forth
at this screen door, nothing but open ears and eyes,
I can only ask those that will listen:

O trees, Starlings picking through your branches,
what can you tell me of this sundown, of what to do
when it has past and I am standing here in the dark.


-Black