The Blue Hour
by Anthony Botti

arrives. The late light turning
on me draws the day closer, the east
meadow beyond a grove of birches, some animal
stirring at the edge of sight. Peering out.¬

Let it happen—release, release—like the wind
riffling through the trembling ferns after two days
of rain. In places only whispering birds fly to, everything
collapses into green shadows, my eyes
adjusting to the faceless dark.
I remember a time being afraid
of it even when I was most hidden. Now it feels safe,
the way the perfect dark lets it all pass
without comment, marking each thing.
What I wanted earlier
out of this day stalled under the furious summer sun,
my stubborn seeing only one thing at a time. Everything
in the growing blackness declares itself, unlocking the night

Something looks back from the flickering trees,
knows me for who I am.

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 1.

Blue-Hour-Birches
Anthony Botti lives and writes in Boston, MA.

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