I find it oddly poetic in the love and war I find with the way the evening turns down the light every night, across the landscape with an easy brush-stroke so familiar, and yet, mildly different each night.
For one, almost impossible second I can feel the relief in its change to another day, into another night, for those other nights lay me (not) heavy with sleep, but-like a ghost lost through the endless threads of night.
(This night) however, gives a crescent moon-smiling, hopeful, and sinking in behind the black of trees so close I could touch it--while, a passenger-plane fly's high against the fading light westerly in the horizon. Its easy to imagine the rows of people on the plane looking down over the valley at the scattered and clustered household lights, twinkling, and some of the dark patches of farm fields full of young corn, blueberries, and hops in the outskirts.
I guess in retrospect I can only hope to float, too, like the plane or the crescent moon-or, like the clouds I can't see hovering through the night. Or the shifting winds found in the bowl of the valley-spreading spells through wind-chimes under the constellations that-sprinkle glitter with dreams so light and poetic into the night.