as the time

eats up our souls

and dies on its meat

there have been signs and

colors to define all destruction of self

in the early evening

the distant image of mountains

the pink and cream of old rocks

the big purple clouds that bind landscape

that cast across waters and fields and

Lay quivering in the shadows

of long yawns and stretching moonbeam

as the wind touches all tickled fingers

of the branches of trees

the last light flows to the river

which it ran and

we laughed nearby

under perfect sky