I live to eye that low
swing of the sun.
How to live is in
capturing each
glad sinking of the day fire.

Cloudy, orange glint,
then fading and lost
in night's long fear.

Perhaps I fear the long
darkness and want to be
present for the beginning
of the last time it occurs.

I miss many fine hours,
choosing worthless hours
for gazing at the stunning
blast of light, even when
the end of land is painted
bleakly gray, and my
friends behind my back say:

"He went to the
edge of glory
on such a dismal,
fog-filled afternoon".