At dusk the lake is like a mirror
as jets fly overhead;
the tops of trees are free and clear
the geese search out their bed.
A bird chirps to the north of me,
perhaps it is a wren;
I sit and watch the sunlight flee
beyond earth's westward bend.
Niagara makes that rushing sound
from beyond the limestone wall,
the beauty of the day is found
as night begins to fall.
Beneath the ebbing gray of sky
in air refreshed by rain,
the light grows dim but by and by
clear visions still remain.