Gracefully leaf swan
twilight and unfolding
you wither age,
green becomes
yellow and
settles
upon this ground,
a white page of mirrors
reflecting the dew
it all steeps in letters.

The erosion decays the sun’s face
and the hours pass ghosts.

The Raven returns to nest fences
the smell of a rustic cedar mist
lingers like the whispering grass.

— Kevin Harling