Revolution

    The heavens compressed into bands of blue and grey
    and blue-grey at the horizon, these the remnants,
    the afterglow of the storm. The clouds are pulled
    so tightly into the nest they become one with
    their mother. The splendid, dying reds of the suns
    last rays rush from behind me in a panic to
    catch and hold on to the darkening landscape. The
    heavy air muffles its own breath in an attempt
    to sing the day to sleep. The evening comes on
    one deeper shade of twilight at a time, bringing
    the moon and her accoutrement to the center
    of the canvas, an eternal portrait of hours.