Before Nightfall
by Annette Sisson

As we walk through
snags of autumn
pasture, my husband’s

ears can’t capture
the cows’ lowing.
Driving home

he points to a flock
of sandhill cranes–
to me a splotch,

a pale bruise
floating across
the windshield’s

frame of sky.
Before the world
slips away, before

night shambles
through ash wood,
sunlight ripens

the clouds–skins
of plum and apricot,
ferment of gold.



 

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