The sun descends behind the mountain we call ours,
pale orange blush bleeds into shadow play
and begins to lay the quiet blanket down
for night to stand the watch.
Nighthawks plunge with swooping echo,
now a purple mist their darkening backdrop.
Distant coyotes summon the pack for the hunt,
while cool breezes blow away the remainder of the sun
In the deepening dark we speak softer, sip wine,
drink stars, taste gratitude thick on our lips.
Like a chorus, the tranquil hush sings
the words heard at the level of the heart.
It is enough they say, enough for the soul,
this spot on a hill where we make our home,
a sanctuary to protect what remains of
our dreams, tenderly holding us in its palm.
Nancy Calhoun recently retired from corporate America. She has also sung opera part-time (quite well known in places no one has ever heard of). She lives in a small ranch town in southeast Arizona, in a home nestled in grasslands on a hill surrounded by mountains. Its beauty inspires her every day as she writes by the window, with opera playing on her Ipod.
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