Why does each evening up here
always, in summer, seem to be
The way — as it does, with the light knifing low from right to left —
It will be on the next to last one?
The next-to-last one for me, I mean.
There is no music involved
so it must be the light, and its bright blade.
The last one, of course, will be dark.
And the knife will be dark too.