At dusk, its laborious arc subdued,
the sun is flushed, reclining west to fuse
with depthless reaches of sky, a lurid bruise
expanding wide, infecting like a mood.
And now repose, a chance for solitude
beneath the brush-scraped boughs and sombre hues
of twilight giants, soughing muted blues.
By morning, strength and hope will be renewed.
Inside the bayou’s coalescing cloak
the folk assemble, while the tenor sings.
The climbing crescent hears but does not tell.
The shadows testify around the oak
as insect masses thrum like cello strings
and songs of freedom persevere and swell.