Quitting time is a small, delightful death.
Cars exhale. People, too.
The sun begins to retire, in this latitude,
From the rigors of forcing Spring
On a frozen hemisphere.
Birds --
Who exclaim, and who hail the morning Sun --
Also fly home, somewhere, when the Sun does;
Wedges of wings turning,
Leaving, arcing and returning,
Vanishing.
At Five O'clock
In March
Where i live,
The monochrome is
Coloring into its gentle death.
At home, there is light.
In my mind,
Which til now hibernated,
A ray of languid light enters the cave.
--Mr. Gobley
