Air cools, grass dampens,

birds trill
and flies are bothersome,
the wood pigeon's rough throat,
and the aspen ticking -
a summer's evening
so, should be serene
and calming
but the fluster in the blood,
the mind's recourse to people, scenes,
stave the evening at a distance,
untouchable
as if I were 
in a dome where all surroundings
couldn't come -
even the sun withdraws
behind a cloud-gauze
slowly thickening
to quench the light.
The trees are still,
the midges bite
and the overspill from all things
gone cascades the empty
spaces in the head until
real things fade
and reality is
the past that's dead.

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