I sit outside in the evening
watching the sun slide down the
side of the sky like melting butter.
Overhead the leaves of the towering ash
are stenciled against the pale blue sky,
as unmoving as daubs of green paint.
A cluster of small clouds spreads out
like small children playing a last game
before dark. They gather together as
they float toward the horizon,
knitting themselves into a soft white blanket,
tucking themselves in for the night.
Two tired robins, their hatchlings gone,
wing across the open sky and bats
swoop like acrobats between trees.
A plane, so high it is silent,
shimmers pink in the sunset glow
blinking its lights like a beacon
showing the birds, the winging bats,
the cloud children, and me
how to navigate the dark.