By Peter Halstead

Half the air grows bright,
when mists at sunset flow
over the hills;
the remaining sky
is dark as night;
dampened in the quiet, snow
spills off distant peaks,
the orange fog descends
down the tundra to the creeks.
The breezes choir
in the same lights that grease
the fields like fire;
birds take shelter
as the winds increase.
We never knew what came
of that painted fervor
with its murky flame:
simply, the mysterium had come.
Day finally went down,
and the funhouse mirror
of the vanished sun grew darker
until the world burst into violet blue,
and a lone dark cirrus
in phosphorescent magic marker
for a minute flew.

July 18th, 2018