Cornel Adam Lengyel
Homeward bound, with a burlap sack of pine cones,
I climb the round-breasted hills of Tamalpais.
Ahead, on a rim of a cloud-hammered sky
the pale moon, no more than a pear-tree petal,
floats into the fading day. Here and there
quail whir from my path. I follow darkening trails
aware, now and then, of a stray bewildered lark
that questions where the light has fled.