Below, the shadowy hillsides merge in gloom;
The wild Nisqually, on its ceaseless quest.
Sings low. A bat flits by. A cricket calls.
The world is making ready for its rest.
To westward, sharp against the glowing sky,
Rise Crystal, Iron, Pyramid, and Wow;
While tinged with pink and saffron, cream and gold,
The Mountain's filmy nightcap hides her brow.
She seems to pause a moment peering down,
Her wrinkled visage bathed in softening light,
To see that all her foothill children; trees,
And birds, and beasts are quiet for the night.
The breath of Evening whispers in the firs,
The God of Darkness comes, tho' all too soon.
A light at Longmire glows; a star appears;
And over Chutla hangs a flattened moon.
Natt N. Dodge,
Ranger-Naturalist.
