In the evening there were flocks of nighthawks

passing southward over the valley. The tall

sunflowers stood, burning on their stalks

to cold seed, by the still river. And high

up the birds rose into sight against the darkening

clouds. They tossed themselves among the fading

landscapes of the sky like rags, as in

abandonment to the summons their blood knew.

And in my mind, where had stood a garden

straining to the light, there grew

an acceptance of decline. Having worked,

I would sleep, my leaves all dissolved in flight.