Dusk, On A Porch In West Virginia

The day had been picking up steam
and setting it on the crooked shelf
of sky
as gently sliding clouds.
Now, at light's end,
the moon has nestled itself
in the small
of the mountaintop's back.
Mist rises from the trees
and it is clear that both mountains
are sighing, forest-blanketed
lover lying
next to lover.

Inside the house,
the sound of women talking,
laughing, their voices too thick with twang
to escape through the screen of the door.
The chains of the porch swing
creak with each forward
backward, forward
backward push.
A rusted tractor with flat
tires sits in the field
across from the house
and tall weeds thread themselves
through its cracked innards.
They bow and bend slightly.

Far away,
something is breaking.

The dogs run up and down the holler
in the last moments of twilight,
tails at nervous attention.
They trot back to the porch
after realizing they've been barking
at their own voices
as they bound back
down the valley walls.