DUSK.

Quiet urges to be born in daylight's infamy,

Placid, still and calm, jaded day will soon die.

Birds, the artisans of flight, startle in majesty,

Their candle wings flicker, bribing the sky.

Wing against gentleness, will against chance.

Now that is the way to romance.

Battered hearts urge their brothers to rest,

And walk silently toward grey skies that dance.

They raise their arms like followers of jest,

Glad for another moment to leap and run wild.

To jump high and raise flags above their heads.

At sunset, when night crawls to the edge of the nest.

With passion in their hearts they glance back,

Fall and flap and drift forever to the unknown.