Cow Dust Hour

THE HOUR is late, but not too late,

The day holds its breath for sunset.

Invisible thread to all but the mystics

And the mad: a passing golden light.

The pulse rebirths the world itself –

elements, eyelashes, egg yolk twilight.

Final exhalation of the day, leaving a

Flurry of gloaming glitter, so crepuscular.

A cry goes out, the prayers begin, and

Cow dust rises as the dusk sets in.