by Rita Putatunda
Flamingo wings are the clouds,
touched by the lingering fingertips
of another setting sun.
As they funnel into the vanishing horizon,
the waters of the lake mimic
the ruby plumage of the sky.
Softly, softly, the shadows deepen
the husk of the dusk.
At the water's edge the moored boat
rocks itself into a dreamless slumber.
A fitful breeze whispers a lullaby
through the leaves of tall trees,
dissolving into the deepening gloom.
Incandescent lights blink open their eyes
- one, by one, by one -
like pinpricks of amber starlight
caught in the tangled tresses
of a moonless earth.
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