The sun was setting
and throwing coppery all:
The many-boated bay;
the little town backing it
that stippled, with buildings,
the hills; the steepled church
that told the sixth
hours in the aftermath of noon;
a sculler lifting his skull out of the water.
An Irish Setter’s coat turned gold
as it sat in the back of a convertible.
A boy shouted “Wait!”, to a friend,
who had biked off ahead of him.
A woman left her colorful scarf
flung across the back
of a chair at the café
the setting sun lifted
to a hue beyond description,
which caught a corner of her eye.
A truck honked
at a car, double parked,
in the street run coppery.
A penny fell from the pocket
of a man’s khakis,
when he fished his keys from it.
The sculler locked the door
of the boathouse where he stored
his scull, just as the convertible
carrying the Setter passed,
and night, sleek in black,
arrived. The sun had set.
the boatyard light
the sculler walked beyond the cone of,
(15 April 2016)