When day closes on late shadows
and small hilltop houses stand as flat silhouettes,
their blinking eyes squinting towards the valley floor
badged with late-grazing grey sheep,
my father stands at ease, hands burrowed in soil-grained dusty pockets,
chin tilted towards moist fields of churned clay,
their blackened furrows converging at a distant curve.

Soon the slim fingers of cypress will softly stroke a rising moon
and at my father's back, the porch light will shed its warm glow
onto the rough path and the stone well,
where an ancient rusting bucket idly hangs
by a tangled chain.
And in the gathering darkness, the clouds will part
to reveal a void in the Heavens.
And he will gaze as always in awe
held in a transient spell counting, like blessings,
the burgeoning stars
as he wrestles with reason, the frailty of life.

And enchanted he will enter the spartan house
to briefly reflect his certain future,
leaving the smothered hills in still air
to share peace with themselves.
And from their safe earth and dense thickets,
small creatures will emerge
to face their own fate without question.