In that final hour, before the stars
set themselves
against the charcoal sky, there is a shroud
up on the mountain
smoke and fog, the gravel path
the only way
in or out
shaded pink by the last, sad efforts
of the sun
to stand her ground
Before coyote songs and the stuttering of
owls drive us back inside
to the fires and the kettles screaming,
televisions calling with their familiar
lullabyes, the sounds of gunfire
echo the staccato beat of
our fingers, tapping
waiting
impatient for the good stuff
the sales and the sports
and just before the night goes black, and the moon breaks loose
and the woods songs come to greet us
like an old familiar friend,
there is a moment, just a fraction of a second
when we think we might remember
what it felt like
to be safe.