Dawn Will Not Compete

A clear December day's sunset here I enjoy most when turning my back on it. Returning along the deep streets I saw the autumnal brown pine needles glow copper red as the ground fell under shadow except, here and there, where a bit of bright light briefly picked out a mail box or a fence post or the corner of a house and, on one street we passed, a maple tree yet retaining most of its foliage but recently turned brilliant red. The moon, almost round, hung pale in blue sky and gradually brightened as the blue grew darker. It was only by the copper sheen slipping up and of the treetops that I knew the sun had set. Then I arrived home as house lights were winking on. Later my awareness of the night was frequently interrupted by the memory of how the evening had looked. I couldn't seem to hold the darkness in my head, and even the moonlit brightness of the nocturnal landscape paled beside the lingering images of vanished evening that returned to mind again and again. I expect I'll dream of them now.