_51. Night Falls

Dark lines the fields behind the house.
Midwest, what a sweet song
the sound of an early dusk,
breath drawn into pockets of darkness
growing heavier, fuller.
Into those little inland seas
you could throw your childhood,
the tune your father would whistle in the garden,
anything.
And out would walk a solitary deer
nibbling at the humid grass,
collecting the shapes of night in silence.