The shafts of light from the sinking sun slice through the garden woods
singling out a few plants to feel the warm rays of a day almost gone.
Tops of trees reflect the last light;
the leaves rustle and sparkle like jewels as they bask in the glory of the day -
the rest of us already lie in shadows.
A hawk soars slowly, high in the sky.
He’s following the light -
to never feel the chill of its absence,
to never mourn a day that’s over and will not come again.
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