Sunday eventide, on the slope of the fire-hued mountain,
owls emerge from the pines' shelter of boughs,
I'm sitting by an open window,
the peace of writing in the night.
Hunters moon, so settled and goldenrod,
the young days of autumn's presence,
sipping cinnamon hot cider,
baying hounds in the smoky valley,
songbirds taking an evening vow of silence.