The Meadow at Dusk

A bent stalk of timothy grass holds one bead of light near its seed head, and the bead trembles whenever the wind passes. Goldenrod leans toward shadow. Queen Anne's lace gathers grayness. Milkweed silk drifts among the stems. The meadow loosens itself from the afternoon. At the far edge, a hummingbird hovers over bee balm, touches one red flower, then another, then vanishes into the grass-light. Now the field carries the evening. The grasses lift and settle, lift and settle, a long green body breathing under the darkening sky. Tell me, when did you last give an hour to such a place? A field mouse slips between the stems. The meadow closes around it without a sound.