Yesterday the sun set as we drove home.
It flowed with me through Kentucky,
glowing beyond the rolling hills.
It sank beneath the hilltop homes along the interstate,
behind buildings that were barns,
before the road came through.
I watched from my window—
turned my head to the west,
regretted the occasional rock wall or line of trees
that fell between my eyes and the firelight.
I saw a sycamore,
alone on a hill,
stark against the dimming day.
These sights reminded me of a night when I was fifteen.
I stayed awake to finish Wuthering Heights
and saw the sunrise in the morning
over the hills of my Uncle’s farm.
I saw a calf born
before we left that day.
And now I see again.
Our time is full of beauty.
It seeps out at the edges of the day,
casts the clouds in orange, pink, and purple,
around a shimmering sun.
As we crossed home into Tennessee,
the sun sank below my view.
The clouds became gray and blue
against the darkening sky.
I was still and warm,
moving through the night.