The sunsets slow catastrophe of reds
and bruised blues
leaches the land to its green and grey.
Light thins over the wood; black
colors in each notch and furrow
at the days closing-down.
The only sounds are bled,
and far away:
the bronchitic cough of an axe
and the lowing roar of distant chainsaws
starting and falling, like cattle
calling out to be milked.
And so I wait here, as usual,
in the crushed silence of tinder: steeped,
stepped in shadow,
under the appalling pines.