“Dusk”

by Jennifer Babjak

Wallowing round the curve of the dirt road

the man in the hat shambles across the hot sand

sun glints around rusty splotches in the quickening dusk

out to the croaking of frogs at the river and the pinging of beetles

The hulled whine of mosquito wreaths

searching the shadows along the screen door

Spanish moss dangles like wind-tattered smoke on the hot still air

Tramping dazed toward the back door,

Through the lit doorway, the beam plays across the table

A snuffy smell seems to dim the overhead lights

Back into the eclipsing green of the woods out the door and into the dark

Barefoot around hills of prickly pears and the banks of trees in the star-spun sky

The blackness seems to rise like fog