Torschlusspanik

As the sun goes down the wildflowers go too,
Sighing their small bodies into cricket hush.
The moon rises over the blue shoulders of trees.

The sunlight held our wrists as we scythed wheat fields,
When the blade turned, it turned golden, our blades
Pendulums on the grasses. Now it is time for

Home. Erik calls from a dragon egg boulder, watch
The skies! Watch the skies! No clouds but rains
Of arrows. We run like fallow to the wall.