It is early evening. The sun has reversed its rays

from the west to east side of the landscape.

The predawn now the twilight

and that equally strong sense of an ending

beginning without the fanfare of first light.

It is a melancholy mood. Subdued like a monk

lost in prayer streaming into meditation

where nothing is asked for because all

has been given. A slow, shuffling dance

of ecstasy, that silent promise of tomorrow,

the refrain that never changes though

the verses never remain the same.

It is near the time of gloaming.

Hootism: the lust for words has usurped the love for meaning.