The generator hums like a distant ding an sich.
It's early evening, and time, like the dog it is,
                                                         is hungry for food,
And will be fed, don't doubt it, will be fed, my small one.
The forest begins to gather its silences in.
The meadow regroups and hunkers down
                                                        for its cleft feet.

Something is wringing the rag of sunlight
                                           inexorably out and hanging.
Something is making the reeds bend and cover their heads.
Something is licking the shadows up,
And stringing the blank spaces along, filling them in.
Something is inching its way into our hearts,
                  scratching its blue nails against the wall there.

Should we let it in?
                            Should we greet it as it deserves,
Hands on our ears, mouths open?
Or should we bring it a chair to sit on, and offer it meat?
Should we turn on the radio,
                                should we clap our hands and dance
The Something Dance, the welcoming Something Dance?
                       I think we should, love, I think we should.