Linda Seymour

Evening in July

For an instant the crescent moon lies
cradled in branches, then tumbles
behind the elms, even now
the day’s length diminishing.
Across the street, beyond mountains, into
unseen ocean, the sun descends
without fanfare. The Amtrak,
seldom on schedule, proclaims itself
down by the river. A motorcycle
passes, a man walks a dog. The sky
streaks with silver-pink. Briefly
the wind swells, bamboo
chimes clack wildly. The train
announces its departure–so soon.

Linda Seymour, born in Chicago, has lived in Eugene, Oregon for nearly five decades.  Geography is destiny.  She has been writing poetry for three years, cajoled and encouraged by Indigo, her writing posse, and Barbara Hazard (1931-2019,) who advised flexibility.  This is her first submission.