Pink and orange
spill through the surly trees
in skinny rays and drops
as juice being let
from the defenseless orange
in a prelude to the day,
the night,
and that to come.
But, is it the instrument
or the orange?  That is defenseless.

it is the instrument-

the trees-
forced with capacity.
It is nothing,
the passage of days and of time.
I quietly pass below the trees,
conscious not to obstruct their ceremony.
Night is falling, the sun is setting.