Atop the hill day makes its goodnight cry
in flame-red hues of myth and mystery,
Divine creation with a breathy sigh
burnishes earth in golden artistry.

Would I were that speck in majestic flight,
the wing’ed sparrow soaring high above
unfettered by melancholy twilight
nor taunted by the specters born thereof.

To feel the rush of wind beneath such wings,
to coast on currents warm with fading sun,
What makes the faith that lets the caged bird sing?
What wisdom lets a finished day be done?

Last vestiges of sun slip from my gaze
as melancholy turns to words of praise.

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