sunsets are an occasion
Horses carry us into the foothills,
nudging each other. An owl calls to us
from a highwire, trillish, frillish,
ruffled by height and fading light,
sharing his night story, tooting as the
sun teeters at the edge of rocky consequence.
Not all owls cry out at dusk. We are lucky.
Nobody falls off a horse. Certain times of day
reveal an orangeness. We gloam for an instant,
lifted by elevation, rising weightlessness, joy.
The owl is in love. Aren't we all? In love
with ourselves and the noises we make.
In love with each other because we have
vicinity in common, halfmoon concavity
of taking it all in so we can remember later.
Sunsets are an occasion for the landscape
to bless us with longevity, senectitude, rugged
ridge of the horizon, haloed light. We are still here.
© Tori Grant Welhouse