The Dimming Day

The forest floor slants
At the angle of the setting sun
Lengthening shadows downhill
Dappled in purples and blues.

High in the bowers
Birds of prey await their meal
Searching movement
Among downed limbs and grasses.

The very air lives
With golden gleam
As mists collect
And dew is born.

Tonight a doe and her fawn
Will make their woody bed.
Stars will soon sparkle
Like embers tossed skyward.

Come day, the eastern horizon
Will blush tangerine.
The doe and fawn will rise
And earth will hurry again.

But in this moment
A hush is collecting
And the world holds its breath
In the dimming day.