Birdsong floats in evening air
that caresses me with the softness
of old wine. Shell pink sunset promises
another fine day tomorrow.
Dusk in the country is not quiet. Insects drone
to find their evening resting place; birds sing desperate
last-call mating songs like men in a bar
who realize it is now or never to find a bedmate.
The woodpecker drums echo in shadowed woods
and the chickens complain as they jostle for a place
on the roost. Over the ridge a weed-eater whines as someone
tries to get a little more done before it is too dark to see.
I sit in my white wicker rocker that could use a coat of paint
and read poetry. My wineglass is at hand and my glasses slide
down my nose as my eyes strain to find words in fading light.
The wood borers quit their bumbling and find rest.
Far off—a mile? perhaps two?—a gas well blows. Men
are working into the darkness, pushing nitro deep into
the rocks that form the ridges and hollows of home.
A piercing roar fills the night, drowning the birdsong.
Money is being made for someone several ridges away.
Free gas will heat a home, maybe. Royalty checks
will be cut. Here on my porch, I close my book, the sunset
reddens, the birds still, and night settles over my land.