by Arthur Klepchukov
Dusk devours the hills into the belly of night.
Tree tops beheaded in the fog.
The sky an inverse sea, drowning the idea of low tide.
The light diminishes and solemnly divides until all that’s left is the flicker of headlights reflected in dark windows.
I let the time extinguish bright until I’m just another empty window,
watching this gentle feast like the last of my species,
meditating through the battle of the unknown alone,
like a Tasmanian Tiger succumbing to the inevitable night.