This is the thin time
in desert’s diaphanous dusk
when blackened shapes
stand stark against a liquid sky
faintly marked
by the early evening star
pinning night’s silk shroud
over a dying day.

This is the thin time
in twilight’s warp
when bats come out to fly.
Like shuttles weaving frantically,
they stitch up vespers veil
and pick at threads of memories
embroidered long ago
in the fraying fabric
of a slowly fading mind.

This is the thin time
between the chatter of the quail
and the coyote’s fearful cry
when our gilded mountains
turn their greasy grey
and I slip quietly
into darkness
at the dying of the day.