A two-bourbon twilight brings down the shade
on another day beneath the cool Spanish moss.
What waits beyond the dusk is a promise.
We have taken care to arrive at day’s end
in full flush with a hazy sense of anticipation.
The evening binds us with intimate fading light.
Later in the night, in the hours when neither science
nor Gods hold sway over our imaginations,
we let ourselves believe the shimmering clues
that hang like sparkling farolito in the New Mexico night.
Having come so far on so little evidence we are Magi,
pilgrims of light, kings in search of a Lord.
