Eventide

“In the stillness you realize how the whole valley is alive with singing of crickets, a constant universal treble going up to God out of the fields, rising like the incense of an evening prayer to the pure sky.” Thomas Merton

Glowing low through eastern pines

suspended, self-contained,

this perfect world gently refines

the rough, red clouds

of eventide.

Beneath the moon

in throbbing streams, tremor

in the vibrant night,

green cloisters chant their lusty song

glorious noise, rising antiphon.