The hour between dog and wolf
is ripe with trepidation.
Some say it comes from light’s unwillingness
to give up, give in. Others say there is an odor
to twilight–something sickly sweet, vegetable
and animal together in a dank potpourri.
It’s the hour of the unfinished phrase,
the hair undone, the photo not taken,
the canvas empty, clean paintbrushes at the easels.
If clouds are going to mass, they will do so at dusk.
If the wind picks up, it does so at owl’s light.
All things bend, twirl, slow and stop at cocklight
to wait for dark and its regime of rest.
