Summer dusk idles in like old
Caterpillars on back roads
and the maples at the foot of my hill
roll about in background rubies,
drumming bottomless emerald heads
at the riverbed stones
and the chain-link walks in the gravel,
downhill with sandals stuck to my toes
and all the hay and last watered roses
christening diamonds
while crows chortle steam from their noses.

Though dark is quick to cover
all I lack in any light,
first is only one seen:
a lantern pupiled of sun,
and much too low this night
at the flat of my hill.
Though dusk has yet left, she would
dangle such lightbulbs on fishing lines and
they are now many a lure of chartreuse hanging
whilst river birds sing Cajun banjos,
whistling amber-ed humidity
to none other but my hill and me.