That magic hour of suns’ last stand

picks out the folds of our dear land.

The ribbon of road divides the scene,

rear-view mirror shows where I’ve been.

And now I stand with brush in hand,

Margin marked between sky and land.

Brings to mind, one stormy day

the rough sea clawing at the bay.

Black rubbed back, a streak of blue,

an arc of land and sea construe.