After Sunset

The dogs and I walk slowly
back from locking the chicken coop,
three eggs nesting in my hand.

The orchard is silhouetted
against the last glow of sunset,
apples crown-bare and wind-bent.

We are all of us older
in this season of shortening days.
Even the old moon is hard to rouse.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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