There is a particular light that comes
in the early passing of night,
in that little while after darkness
and before the sun reaches the horizon:

yellow becomes orange,
green seems tinged with blue
and every hue is somehow muted
yet more dramatic in its gentleness.

Maybe it’s the lack of harshness
that seems to soothe my spirit,
nothing stark like sunlight
on the white boards of the barn,
nothing sharply defined like gravel and grass.

There is simply a suggestion
in the shadowy places
that this is where the lane
passes through the trees,
no need for clear and crisp distinctions
or recognitions of individual boundaries;

just more a peaceful blending,
each thing existing fully
without ego depending
upon some implied claim
that We cannot be
unless You know
that this particular shadow
is Me.

H. Arnett
7/23/13