End of day poem

New gold, these stubbled fields, as summer goes, and late-day slant of sun lights grassy tufts to amber clarity. Seeds cling to stem, but wind will tug and free the feathered ends. We try to count the dragonflies adrift-- hundreds glide over the stone-set paths, fly hidden labyrinths we cannot trace, alight on walls with quick, transparent grace. We’re stunned and slow as autumn-heavy bees, transfigured by September’s sorcery, dazzled as we move through spellbound fields, bound to hardening ground, beneath curved shield of pewter sky. Cicada’s churn and swallows dip and dive beneath the sky now leached of summer’s bright displays of blue. The air itself is charged, and edged with cooler chimes, as nature shifts.