The Echo

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The rose-gold world
resounds with end
of day gladness:
sky stretched canvas
tautly waiting
for calling crows,
starlings winging
home to their roosts,
robin redbreasts
serenading.
The grass’s green
a-glimmer with gilt.
Sentinel trees
darken their cloaks,
looming, shoulder
to shoulder, black
and grey shadows
ringing the field.
Sun-warmed field where
She, unaware
that she glows gold
and pink, caught now
in this moment
between day's death
and night's dark-birth,
brandishes her
silvered stick-stave.
She calls out, full-
voiced, into the
bird-haunted dusk,
joining her song
to the twilight
chorus. Now let
the echoes come.