The evening is now
transformed bowl of
dust, leather hunting.
Mute voices call,
and the wind whittles
peripatetic journeying.
The traffic mumbles
sounds lost in afternoon's
hangover. Bristles with desultory conversation
and the movement of evening's arc.
A swish.
A hunt for night.
Soon my drooping eyes
will take over Night's
charge, with rumbling
dogs in otiose company.
