Evening rests easy across the landscape
as spring, new and naked, stretches and sighs
upon the breast of the milky sky above

Pine tree mothers rising out of the dusk
shake the laughing stars free from their needle-skirts
and they swim in the upturned bowl of night

The fire slowly burns to embers in its pit
bright and warm in the smooth chill of the air
the smoke twisting upward and tangling in my hair

I hear singing and turn my head
but it is only an owl haunting the woods down the hill
whispering through the trees on muffled pinions

Down the hill and across a bubbling stream
the broad, tawny horses make their way across the field
heading to the barn for the sweet hay

and sleep.