Cows grazing send their melancholy chords
From on the hill
Into the valley
Where all is still.

Descending from the wooded ridge
Grey mist brushes mute the palette.

Sun, today, has not chanced to live
And will not, in its splendored fashion, die
As night and Moon creep ever higher
Into Day’s grey sky.

Subtle transformation is achieved
As Day melts into Night.
Without its rainbowed Joy, it is bereaved
Of having lived as Light.

∼Sherry Bunting(c)2015∼