South of the Evening

I am drawn out the door
south, through the cool air; drawn
to the south of the evening.
cicadas grow sleepy;
crickets quiet as cold settles
down
from the vault of the sky

like heavy weighing snow.

I am drawn along the road
south, under leaning trees
and through fields, drawn
to the south of the evening.
the sky is settling its feathers,
preening dusky pink out
from under the clear turquoise
of the receding edge of light

and then back under sleepy indigo.

the sky changes into its night plumage
as I walk into the shadow of its wings
drawn, inexorably drawn,
to the south of the evening.
when I have walked far enough
I will round the edge
and there will night be
with reaching blackberry fingers
to blind me.