At dusk, a colorwheel sky.
It is yellow-green to the west.
Overhead, a dimming into blue.

The day’s earlier torrent of photons
has reduced to a trickle.
The last of them bounce through the atmosphere
and, without any pressure behind them, scatter.
Far away, the spigot has been shut–
eclipsed by the rim of a spinning world.
One by one, they are absorbed.
Heeded.
Listened to, like sacred whispers.
In some cases, become flesh.

The air glows softly in all directions
as if it has been electrified.
The sun, a massive cathode,
has sunken into the horizon-
plunged into the earth.
It’s electric tendrils flow like rivers through the soil,
tickling veins of metal far below,
illumining particles of iron and mica
that drift like pollen in a topsoil sky.

In the underworld, it is first light.
Above, the last colors have begun to fade,
as if the sky were an old picture tube,
switched off, slowly cooling.

For a moment, both worlds are joined.
For a moment, every place is the inside of every other.
For a moment, our questions are eclipsed by who we are.

The birds, done flying,
erupt into song.
The content of these Little Hearts
is enough to fill the glade.
It is the Moment for which they are meant.
It is so beautiful-
this dying,
this revealing,
this creating,
this blessing,
the way an honest, curling song
and Eternity lose themselves in one another.

When worlds join, every being involved
becomes a Holy Narrator to what lies inside,
a speechless singing,
an observing Participant.

We alight now, one by one,
as time draws to a close,
to perch in the branches of the tree of Christ.
We look to the west, where history fades,
and prepare ourselves to sing.
It is the Moment for which we are meant.