Dances at Dusk
by Bob Moore

The daffodils bowed lower in the dark.
Above the trees, the geese inspected where
their day would end, the dog bark in the air
competed with the last songs of a lark,

and sunlight on the east side of the pines
rose slowly as the twilight took its place.
Two sparrows in a kind of frenzied race,
flew upward, over, swapped impromptu lines

of flight in front of a willow gold at dusk–
a yellow gold the winter had kept on hold.
The sun as it turned red, before the cold
seeped in to fill the fields, set down, not brusque,

but sharp enough to cue the birds, the bear,
decisions are a light and dark affair.


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