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.