Dirt the color of turmeric
As rabbits
Do wind sprints
On dry highlands.
A week ago, ducks swam
These clay beds.
Yesterday, pink flowers
Were opened.
I was lost then
In a thousand reveries
Of evening light
In distant times.
Now the rabbits
Move for the brush,
As something moves
For me—
Away from the familiar
Drygrass and bare trees
Toward a rapture where
All is distilled, completed.
The fiery sphere
Redeems the stillness
In low light,
Absorbs the details—
They call it mystery,
This blessing it gives
To be present
In fading light.
