Day sheds its sheath of light,
the skin of things a wisp,
a wreath, every blade clinging
to the flare once pulsing within.
As shadows climb the hills,
the heavens spin above;
caught in their swivel,
a luminous planet or two.
Below thrive thistle, laurel, sage,
manzanita, sumac and rue.
Breeze brushes their gilded
shafts. The dessicated bristles
of their involuted bracts
leave audible scratches
on the silken shroud
of evening’s amber whisper.