The Golden Hour

A drive, long enough To wrap from dusk to dawn. The birds returning To their abode, made patterns, Mismatched but intriguing.

The fabric of gloam Encased the vivid colours of clouds, Shuffling from place to place, As if travelling rounds.

The sun still vibrant at the horizon. But the moon being stubborn, Becoming visible before its time. Smiling to the sun, As if it said, "Goodbye, it's my turn."