Duskfall on Coit's Pond

at eight to nine he is alone,

on the part-gravel part-tarred road,

no car ahead, none behind.

from the farm house to home,

it’s about thirty minutes.

make it an hour, he wishes he could,

for there’s much to see

and breathe in

before he sees the bills.

there’s the stirring breeze of dusk,

the death of all the churning

or cutting engines of day:

of chain saws and lawn mowers,

tractors and boat engines,

halley bikes and roaring cars.

the sunlight that penetrates

the clouds and leaves their downsides

with celestial streaks;

that penetrates the canopies,

and taints the leaves of spring

with golden hues;

three canada geese home

at their usual hour,

their hollow calls ebb and circle

above the lake;

the evening birds defend their territory,

each to its perch, with beak assaulting the air

in an endless song;

for him it’s the song

of the tires that turn on the gravel road

that grate the memory;

the hum of the engine,

or the nostalgic strains of jazz

from the car radio

that stirs his mind into a trance-like travel;

the long-forgotten scenes

he would gladly revisit,

the silhouettes of time’s songs,

now but echoes of spaces

once lived.

Vermont, May 2006.