Gradually along the range
All things exchange their light
For darkness.


Single oaks
On hills that burned with gold
Merge now in shadow,


And hawks sail out
Over the valley,
Its air like a mirror


Filling with night,
That takes our images
And does not return them,


Just as the pines
Blot out our voices,
And even the stones at our feet


Fade from sight.
Now only the stars
Have eyes,


And around us sounds
Of things we cannot see
Begin to rise:


The owl’s single note,
And the coyote’s cry.


“Night in the Mountains” by Heather Allen