Do Parisians still call dusk
l'heure bleue? I should ask
the internet gods. At sundown
in the Sierra Nevada, green
pine trees seem gold, sift
mild breezes. You sense
raccoons, deer, and coyote
getting ready for the night-shift.
Rustlings in the brush. I've
always felt more dread at dawn
than dusk. Jaws of jobs I hated
waited then. Fresh evils
and the cackling of the pious
lurk in morning headlines.
Dusk equals After Work, a time
to cook and think, to hear
jazz or savor silence, to sniff
the darkling air--like a coyote.
hans ostrom 2022
