By David Filer
What wonder, bluegrass in a setting sun.
As incidental as any summer weed,
But at this moment, graceful and golden,
As if chosen as the godhead of its breed,
In that dry triangle by railroad tracks
And the four-way stop at the edge of town,
Ignored and noticed only by the cats
Who watch for field mice there and track them down.
They’ve become the crown jewels of one evening,
As close to glory and redemption as
Any of us get. And then the fading
Sun leaves them, and their bright moment has passed.