I am standing at the edge
of my neighbors’ field,
looking west at the colored ending
of the last Lord’s Day in November,
eating the last piece of apple pie.

A few clouds
and two jet vapor trails
gleam silver
above the deep burn
of a sun that cannot be seen.

Black branches on the ridge
stretch slender silhouettes
against the sky.

I chew slowly,
crunching the apples,
savoring the sweet filling.

The silver turns pink
and the last fire sinks
below the hills.
I finish the final bit of crust,
lick the last bit of light
from this good day.

H. Arnett
11/27/12