Sometimes, sunsets seem to sneak upon me,
which upon thinking about it seems rather strange—
it’s not as though the sky tries to hide its change—
half a sky high and wider than the horizon.

This one, though, I’d seen coming for over an hour;
more than a hint in late afternoon sky,
the way the sun sifted through shifting clouds,
an early rehearsal or practice round

As the sun continued sliding toward the ground.
I finished shoveling out a pickup load of compost
onto the yard of maybe the most prominent house in Wathena—
set into a cut on the ridge facing the Pony Express bridge.

I paused twice on my way down the hill,
watching that red-orange glow fill the western sky
and hoping I’d get home in time to watch this one
burn all the way down to the low embers.

I parked the truck up at the house and walked on dormant grass,
past the garage and the cedars to where the view opened.
Beside the shed where the horses are fed,
I stood on the old, creosoted crosstie frame of the compost pit

And watched the sun as it continued its flaming setting,
a blazing show of streaks and seams of color
that reflected even in the eastern sky
and traced platinum rims on the edges of the clouds farthest west.

I felt that old rising in my chest, a swelling of peace and pleasure
that I have known since a child whenever I try to take the measure
of some thing or experience of awesome beauty,
something that makes me breath deep and slow

Taking time for feeling more than knowing,
letting it sooth and settle in me like smelling roses
or the feel of a sleeping baby’s head against your chin
or the soothing of a gentle wind on a hot afternoon.

I stood there, quiet and alone,
soaking up the very sense of heaven—
almost as if I knelt before its throne
with my knees rounded into a mound

of decomposing horse manure—
and yet, somehow, inexplicably pure,
in God’s own presence,
made better by the breaking down,

ready for a better growing,
a deeper knowing,
a greater yielding
to the Seed long ago planted within me.