Layers

layers of an early warm evening assemble themselves,
first you hear the birds,
in the just-before-dusk they have much remaining business,
and there are small mothed winged creatures playing tag in
the near foreground

and pretty soon, because the smell of rain comes in,
in a quick breathless breeze,
tempering the unseasonable 90,
your attention shifts to the next layer:
in the background now
the neighbor turns his tractor towards home;

he kicked up dust in the fields embracing your place earlier,
when you were mowing, each of you busy in the volatile

changing,
trying-to-settle season

so he heads home to supper

the goats bleat
and wind picks up a little, still balmy,
another layer,
the neighbor down the road, mowing now because he

worked
all day.

you remember the sounds of suburban evenings when spring arrived, and
children called and shouted
from their swing sets

you don't want to hear that anymore, you
earned your quiet
tho' no one could accuse you of
being small and mean in spirit.

you remember how those were once your favorite sounds.

now in later time, your years
and the pace of life seek some salvation:
the fathomless depth of beginning blooms against a
graying cloud-paneled, sunlit sky, the end of day

marching, no,
rolling
toward the missed west,

the peaks of red-roofed barns turning into etched maroon against the spring soft trees

and fading into the darkening day.

all seems well, and the pause of a spinning world imperceptible,
just

enough to remind you that
all this is
now

your own.