Magic Hour

every individual leaf and blade of grass seems to be separate,
the breeze’s chilly prickle-bite gently pluck-plucking at every one,
an unpredictable, yet tranquil symphony,
as the moth’s umber wings glide her by,
speaking in a delicate whisper,
like everyone knows her name,
and all I can think is –
Mother Earth’s voice is such a magnificent view

it’s Magic Hour,
the time when the sunlight is golden,
polished by the friction of time’s passing,
softened by the imminent falling of the night,
lending the world an impossibly beautiful glow,
and it’s music to my eyes

-image via Pexels