A Certain Slant of Light

Sometimes, around late afternoon, there is a certain 

richly burnished golden tinge to the color of the sun,

which caramelizes every tree and shrub

and lawn and rooftop

that it touches.

The snow atop Mount Arrowsmith

then turns a rich rosy pink,

and pink-tinged wisps of clouds

trail above the hills across the canal,

like candy cotton spun fine

between a child's sticky hands,

and draped over the low hills'

rounded shoulders.

When I happen to be at the pond

at just the right time -

and one can never anticipate the exact moment

these confluences will occur -

I catch my breath in wonder

at the bull-rushes and tall golden grasses,

made resplendent

by this certain slant of light,

as it leaps from frond to frond,

then softly fades,

as quickly as the heron

spreads wide her wings

and lifts herself off

and away,

into the falling dark.