There shrills a lone cicada, singing late,
From somewhere down about the barnyard gate,
And sounding overhead the nighthawk’s rasp
Spells finish to the insects he can grasp.
The yellow stab of noon has turned into
The mellow sof tness of a sunset’s hue,
And in its light, with that of evening star,
Things Iose their glare to look like what they are.
The scene will change again, though, very soon:
An aura in the east foretells a moon.
by Ray Romine Wednesday, March 31, 1954