Waning Day

There is a rhythm

to this evening.

A rhythm of soft wind

rocking the gold-kissed

emerald leaves

ever so gently

in a tender,

lulling,

balmy twilight

of escaping day

and growing mystery.

Magic

in the song of the water

recycling its peaceful chant

of flowing, chattering rumor

and above

one last choir

of robins and blackbirds

circling

the brevity

of the fainting sky

while the sun

bids good night

to the rose.