"This Blue Hour," by Hans Ostrom (Lyrics) and Jeremy Chaddick

Birds at Twilight

A black murmuration

of starlings surged like a pepper
storm, shifting shapes
against a pallid blue sky at dusk.

And a slow
procession of flying crows
crossed just above
us, a little crowd of corvids

flapping casually
toward a roost in a fir tree.
We wondered
about the hedge sparrows

hunkering down,
and where do juncos nest?
At twilight, birds
move. They migrate from

light to dark.
We find we're rewarded
when we watch
them as often as we can.

hans ostrom 2024

Longtime Married

Two candle stubs

in old candlesticks

drown their flames 

in wax. A few strings

of gray smoke disperse

in the dim, darkening 

room at dusk.

We're both quiet

as we look, together

and separately, 

into advancing darkness.

Finally, one of us

says, "Well, . . . ."

and the other says,

'Yes, . . .". We rise

from the table,

pick up the dinner plates,

silverware, glasses,

and take them to 

the kitchen where one

of us flicks on the light. 

Hans Ostrom 2024

Wine-Red Clouds at Twilight

Red-wine-soaked clouds

at dusk sing an intoxicated anthem

of light to summon such 

night creatures as raccoons,

bats, cats, and certain devotees

of Charles--Baudelaire

and Bukowski, those bad boys.

Sing, you wine-dark sacks 

of rain. Sing!

Hans Ostrom 2024

Assessing an Evening

What evens at evening?

A dog's barking takes bites
out of quiet. In their buildings,
people cook, drink, take medicine,
talk, give up, rage, look at screens.

Outside, birds have returned
to nests and perches, warming
each other, silencing caw, shriek,
whistle, and song. I decide to use
all this information as evidence

of local equilibrium at dusk,
something that's fine by me.
I'm more weary than optimistic.

hans ostrom 2023

Selfish

Twilight: sky brighter than landscape,
which backs slowly into darkness.
Crows fly home, high for them. They
become wrinkled, animated black lines.

So much is wrong out there--
the city, the nation, the world.
One feels ashamed, obligated, compelled,
and weary. This evening I give in

greedily to privilege, sit outside with
headphones on, listening to Ellington
indigos, "Solitude," "Prelude to a Kiss,"
"Mood Indigo," a cover of "Autumn Leaves."

In my heaven, Duke is musical director.
September air, influenced by Puget Sound,
mixes with dimming light sublimely. Yes,
I said "sublimely." Insufferable.

I want for nothing except more commitment
to change some bad things.
How disgusting to write about oneself
at a time like this.


hans ostrom 2015

"Dusk," by Angelina Weld Grimke

"Towards Evening," by Hans Ostrom

Twice-Believing Creatures

Twice-Believing Creatures

Crickets sing the word "ceasing" electronically

in dirt and dry stalks.

A heavy black beetle turns his belly

to the cosmos, plucks with his six feet

at the needles of a darkening pine bough.

The Magician dances out of straw. He is Dusk;

he juggles the sun and the moon and the evening star.

Here and there a few are alert,

some curious, some thankful--like the deer,

weary of swishing horseflies away

from their backsides all day and hungry

after the heavy afternoon;--like the raccoon,

waddling off to make a living at the pond's edge;

--and the tireless child, the old man

who stands near his garden listening to the corn grow,

and the woman with her hands folded,

singing out loud to nobody.

They know that dusk takes today's body

and brings another after an interlude of dreaming.

They know nothing of the sort;

they are as dubious as the light at dusk.

They know the world to be as new

as the note of a gnat in the ear, as old

as the lizard's dry smirk,

a boulder's personality, darkness.

Hans Ostrom, 2013