The twilight knits its shawl of grey, melding clouds like soot-stained rags, tracing the roots beneath the world, each story etched beneath the forest. As the last brush of hue fades, light they draw cowers behind the sleek outlines of trees.

Quiet wraps around, weaving
through whispered comments, unraveling laughter like feathers, everything takes its path toward dusk, yet we linger still along each glade, hearing silhouettes sing in dreams, the way nature opens wide, and seeks to hold us there forever.

• Muriel Rukeyser