From a hotel window in Omaha, the speaker watches the sun go down behind the river hills. The red light fading across the sand makes the day feel finished—“a goner”—and not worth fighting over. There is a flat, almost weary acceptance here: time simply moves, another day is nailed down and gone.
The twilight feels cold and bitter, no different in Omaha than in Chicago or Kenosha. But as darkness deepens, the mood shifts. Stars come out and wheel overhead, turning attention away from the lost day and its sand. The ending is strangely calm and large: human concerns shrink, and the speaker is left with a dome of stars over Nebraska. The feeling is quiet, lonely, but finally expansive.