Sunday evening,
the last hours
of what the people in the U.S.
celebrate as a time of thanks-giving.
The yellow sun disappeared
as Earth rolled passed
and now the sky
is orange along the horizon,
then yellow
and rising into a couple of shades of blue.
Alpaca are munching
at their new hay bale,
a giant round of prairie hay for the winter.
The Guineas, in the barn,
squawk to each other,
quiet,
then start again with their dissonant racket.
A Coyote north of the barn
barks
then howls.
I hear Canada Geese coming
from the East,
honking all the way.
Light dims
and the colors in the sky intensify
and now I see the waning moon,
a feather,
shining overhead at two o’clock
in the southwestern sky,
turning bluer by the moment.
And there is Venus, a little lower,
glimmering.
I step out to look East
to see Jupiter,
shining above the horizon.
A last blast from the Guineas,
drowned out then
by a series of large flocks of Canada Geese,
gone to settle on the reservoir south of the barns.

I have built a small fire
in the fire pit
on the north porch.
Not even a breeze,
the air moves from north to south,
until,
suddenly,
it shifts
and not only can I see the smoke change course,
but I can feel the cold night air.
The wind chime softly sings a note or two.
The fire flames
are the same color
as the orange on the horizon.
The old Hackberry’s thick arms
are black against the indigo sky.
I smell the sweetness of Pinon smoke.
I hear the occasional song of the wind chime.
I watch an owl fly silently across my view.


After a long while, I separate the coals
and step out into darkness.
I welcome the cold, sharp air.
The sky is alive with layers and layers and layers
of star light.
I take in the vastness,
the inconceivable beauty
as best I can
and let myself
fall.