As he heads to the barn
The evening sun dips down
Beneath the western clouds
For one last look at the day
And washes warm where he may
Across the uncluttered earth
Casting long those evening shadows
Beyond the obstinate things
That refuse to clear the way.
And I have learned in my years
That when I see the shadows
Stretching in their yawns
And sense the yellowing hue
I am never disappointed
To turn and face the East
Where he paints brilliant
Whatever he finds standing—
The trees
The hills
The cliffs—
In the richest gold
I ever saw—
And makes glorious
What was
Moments before
Merely beautiful.
And I wonder at how he is pausing
To look back over his shoulder
In reflection on this good day.
