With the palette of auburn when the sky is coloured,
Clouds ablaze by the setting sun’s fury,
A sheepish red the heavens blush.
Its angry ancestor from moments past,
Furbished in Nature’s furnaces, bellows of fire and wind,
Bade adieu, to rest and play its part
In tomorrow’s play—The Twilight Zone of Winter by
The Road Near the Lake.
A routine performance that never ceases to amaze,
I sit on the bench near the thawing lake.
Pinpricked feathers of ducks surface,
The game afoot, the curtain rises—
“Geese to the south”, cold winds yell Nature’s silent screams
As Act 1 opens with migratory themes.
Winds on the winds, the avia scurry past
Into horizon that forever last.
With a mighty yawn, the sun spills its final light over things big and small,
Illuminated spiders in dangling webs
And the great lake that majestically rests.
Midway through Act 2, I find my popcorn
As the frogs croak their mighty horns.
Lamps come on, I fear interval beckons
But the wooded strings sweep on without recession.
The angry red now clouds the sky,
Raging against the dying of the light.
Spurred by horns and strings and now the rising crickets,
The clouds’ silent furore is heard
As the sun-kissed horizon eclipses the sun.
The sounds abate, the finale approaches,
All gather to witness
The sun bowing its head below the horizon.
With a cathartic sigh, the musicians
Whimper to the close
As an eerie melody emanates from the trees’ bows.
A farewell, sad and scary,
Envelops Nature’s production.
I gather my things and begin to walk away
When I see shadows of two branches
Contracting with the fallen day.
Between them, there The Twilight Zone lies
Seemingly permanent, then speedily toward darkness flies.