Yellow Light

A winter evening 
in the yellow light, 
and it's the kind of dusk 
where the sky feels low, 
like it is pressing against us, 
and the Douglas firs  
are painting heavy circles, 
braided 
with the smell 
of woodfire smoke 
from someone's chimney,
and moss 
and mushrooms 
and old clay soil 
saturated with rain.  
And we climb 
the rocky path, 
the ferns hitting our ankles 
like bells, 
and the call of the Steller's jay 
takes us to the opening in the trees 
where the mountain is waiting for us, 
the clouds around it 
just barely turning pink, 
the river bending before it, 
dark and too neatly kept 
between two cities, 
and we stand there for a moment
to feel the wind 
as the trees do, 
and we let it carry us along.