Carolina Wren scolds as I sit
wreathed in dusk's golden light.
He flicks his tail and squawks;
apparently I am too near his
exquisite, grassy nest.
I quiet, trying for invisibility,
and he too goes silent and still.
We share this gilded moment;
perfect light, calm air,
golden light on the horizon,
golden haze over the wheat field.
I smile as yellow butterflies
play follow the leader.
Then, between breaths, the spell
is broken: shadows stripe the grass,
exquisite gilt edges on the roses
disappear, the air deepens and cools.
Wren resumes his rant.