It is twilight, but darkening
And what I think I see
May be something else
Or nothing at all.
Sage sniffs the air and looks
Out across this recently
Shorn field. I can see
The farmer’s lights now
That the corn is down,
And Sage smells rabbits
And field mice and hears
Their scurrying – wanting
To give chase as I did when
The corn was high and concealing.
It kept the heat upon our path
Then when we were here last.
We walked in its shadow,
In its dark influence, making
What we could of being there
As we and time plodded on
Before the corn was gone.
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