Twilight

The cane is low, the wild grass cut.  Nary a decent weed where a creature can hide, a bush to rest on or under, the birds just fly right by.  It's sugar-farm country, manicured.

Yet, before the miles of seedlings explode in full fall growth, the flat of sweet land presents the setting sun.  Tonight, behind mountains of western clouds, it seemed a birth, the Big Bang, the beginning of the universe.  All this in 3-D, sitting alone, on earth, hurtling through space toward the edge of time.

What do they call a baby rabbit, the one sniffing at my laces?  He was hiding in a crease, then came out when I didn't move.  I was telling him about the owls and hawks, and he hopped away - east of the red sun toward the brighting moon. 

So, by night I returned, to the road, in the traffic...

© 1997 David Baker (aka D.M.Molloy)