Fan

A fan of pink and purple cloud feathers
Across the southwestern lit horizon 
Underneath a newish moon scimitar
Is the fading light of my eightieth

Lovely to behold from a grassy knoll
With faithful Esmee alert at my side
Mortal beings together before storm
That will blank all in still of winter white

This pleasure in a cooling breeze is great
And small, the wind picking up,  to spread cloud
Darkening farther to tomorrow’s east
Where the sun will be then at it again

The dog is now lying just at my feet
Sniffing restlessly wondering what’s next