The sun contemplates
how it will be remembered.
Shadows lie down the valley slope,
confusing light and dark.
A slice of black wing, just ahead of the wind,
a tantrum of fur, and blood
falls from the sky in fat drops like red
red ink, correcting mistakes written on the earth.
Last light spills down from lost summer
clouds on their way toward the sea,
washes down hills, fringed in brown-gold trees,
drowns over-eager shadows, huddled
beneath churches, their steeples in silhouette,
wearing graveyards like shawls.