unfamiliar breeze heralds the coming of Dusk

roughing up the stiffened bushes along the sides of the gully

dusk is coming on like a freight train from hell

though to the casual observer

it could be mistaken for the pleasant retreat

of the day's nettlesome light

and the erosive burdens of expectation

​

threat becomes attack in a turn of moment

twilight starts in with the force of a mild disaster

what in god's name were we thinking

was this Brian's idea

we're adrift in saddening attacking wilderness

cut off from headquarters and its cooking smells

and mom and dad and familiar chairs

​

though red brick # 98 is plainly visible

and there is an 18-hole golf course at my back

the breeze stinks of strangeness

our playtime sunlit gully is become a dinner hour gulch

redolent with end of all things

the face of my mom beckons

against roiling bruise-colored clouds