Eveningtimes

It's evening and the Earth spins
slower than usual, when the day ends.
It's when the shadows come out to play,
stumbling 'cross chubby hills and meandering streams.
And I sit in the fields a silent observer,
shaded in grey twilight.

A glint of metal caught my heavy eyes,
a bright distraction, an obvious call.
A call for attention, a silent screech,
pierces my vision,
with warm, orange streaks.

I walk towards the river of earthly ills,
and launched the shining
into her groping paws,
and walk away, appeased.

It's evening and the Earth spins,
slower than usual, when my heart rants
and raves at the fact
that I'm resting here, slothful,
my limbs resigned,
my future designed.

When I finally stand on my feet,
summer is but a foreign dream.
I'm a bewildered tourist on vacation.
When it's time to go home,
I dropped my camera,
and ran into the arms of the waiting trees,
the rustling of their leaves a comforting sound.
The source of their lives found below ground.
I joined them, so I took roots,
With nowhere else to go,
from now on...