Eventide

Under a pewter, blue sky,

Of January winter, never changing,

Ageless as the face of Mount Rushmore,

Gray and metallic,

Unbroken, implacable cover,

Thick floating shroud, impenetrable as an iceberg,

Leaves down for months long gone

Emerge from some hidden place,

Scattering in small swirls as vehicles move past,

Falling again to the ground

From whence they briefly leapt.

Trees presently barren -

Their thick, lush green, now dormant -

Expose rangy, twisted branches,

Empty and alone.

Air sits heavy, cold, and still.

Random gusts stir remnants

Of another week,

And scatter thoughts

Across the looming nightfall.

Sun passes low on the horizon

In the twilight of it all.