He stood beside the fence post
At the edge of his land
Ready to give all or maybe just most
Of the crops he'd gathered by hand.
He stood under a crimson sky
Behind which the purple night
Chased, nipping at its heels.
And it was as if he could feel
The urgency of dark falling
And the day coming to its inevitable close.
His skin tingled with longing
As a waft of the summer night breeze hit his nose.
And he knew soon
He could go home.
And just when the moon
Appeared in the sky alone,
The man picked up a tune
With his lips and his crops with his hands
And proceeded to amble
Leisurely home.