where the setting sunlight is filtered across the hillside sloping away,
treetops, and tall grass until all their green is replaced by yellow and red
where you know a white pine not by counting five needles,
but by the way the wind soughs through it
where the distant sound of small waves
lapping the shore wakes you with its sigh
where contented red sunset silhouettes murmur, sip coffee,
while the cries of loons echo
when the stars wheel coolly above and the fire has consumed cares
and burns smokily low and the fading embers reflect redly in your eyes
My apologies to my poet friends. Sometimes something comes over me.
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