It’s late and everything settles
like smoke on Tenmile lake. The shadow
of a heron glides above the water’s surface,
softly, like someone rustling sheets. I wish
this last day of June would last another hour;
the thin moon already in the sky. As the golden light
slowly leaves, a flurry of crows crowns the oaks.
The cloudbank, shaped like a blacksmith’s anvil,
pulls to the West. In a little while I won’t be able to see
the steel blue dragonfly circling the reeds,
the distant mountains jagged
as a serrated knife.
Where There’s Still A Little Light by Thomas Mitchell

Photo used under CC.