Days fall downhill in the west,
yellowing shadows the last sun left
to moon and stars – light melting
into golden flats, pooling in corrals.

In the east, darkness lingers in spots
stretching to the creek as first light
torches hillside trees – dawn
slower to dress before the heat.

Red-tails float between sycamores
and oaks for fuzzy-eyed, early risers
mapping a day’s harvest of seeds
connected to lines of poetry.

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