Evening of bird song, evening of silver jumping fish.
Evening of hushed murmurs in the woods.
Evening of family-talk, husband-talk. son-talk.
Evening where memory meets bird song.
Evening where the sizzle of fish on the grill
meets corn on the cob.
Yellow dripping butter cobs
meet rustling wind on the horizon.
You and I meet in these spaces,
You and I meet
and our soft voices
mingle in the place
where the sun meets the horizon,
where the July sky disappears
into the vast lake
beyond what we try to say.
Where our hearts intersect in the foam of the waves.
Where we can’t quite express what the
dying sun says so well just before it fully disappears.