Magic Hour

The soft gold of rust at sunset
lifts itself, a bridge,

And the corn's gone against the drought.

This song is old:

EJ&E
humming itself
into existence
in the distance;

Lake
gracing itself
in waves
among the mills.

Late summer comes
with its parking lot fairs
and old seconds,
recollected neon
piled against
the sudden silence
of coats
and pockets.

Where we are
we have never been;

Where we were
we will be again.