The soft chill of an evening breeze 
stirs the leaves of locust and maple.
Slow mist forms over the stillness of the pasture,
sheltered by the bluffs and woods.
The low ridge that rises up beyond the bridge
phases from thin gray at its base
to dark silhouette at its crest
where a solitary oak tree rests from the day’s heat.

The low light of a quarter-moon 
in something like high noon position
filters through drifting clouds,
a barely glowing shroud
broken by birch branches out past the garage.

In something like a mirage of rest,
a nylon hammock hangs in the shadows
beneath and between two of the trees,
anchored by strong ropes on each end
above the barely tended lilies and solitary hosta.

We lean back in our lawn chairs
beneath the ornamental peach tree on the patio,
listening to Jackson Brown and Jimmy Buffet
and other classic rock-n-roll,
watching the shadows of the moon slowly work their way
around the edge of an old two-story frame house,
yet not quite reaching the stones
that we will walk into the coming night,

into the coming rest that follows this day
that the Lord has blessed with peace and bread.


H. Arnett
9-26-23