1.
A delicate beauty creeps
Along the summer horizon.
Clouds refracting the setting
Sun in a bounty of pinks,
Oranges and purples.
The sky is no longer blue,
Except from a bird’s-eye view.
Birds sing a paean to
The rainbow hues;
Their scattered voices
Blending into one.
Theirs is Apollo’s song
In declension.
Theirs a wavering praise
Of all that is brilliant
And warm.
2.
Cool colors mark
The horizon now,
And still they sing.
Is it instinct or
Emotional response?
Who has studied
The emotions of birds?
Who the motions of their
Ululating throats?
3.
All is serene as the sun
Plunges past the horizon,
Indifferent to the Earth.
Who can measure beauty,
Or even say what it is?
The sun shines in spite
Of itself.
Solar flares flicking the
Radiant atmosphere.
Tongues of fire — from
Hell or Pentecost?
Helios can answer;
Apollo remains mute.
Why must the gods be
Invoked at all?
Is this nature or
Supernature at work?
4.
Colors fade; clouds
Disperse; beauty sleeps,
Blanketed in dark.
Let us be wary:
Heat grows cold.