Sunday evening, coming home.

In the azure sky gilt-edged grey clouds
billow like dingy sails adrift.
A rosy glow rises from the west
as the sun prepares to take her evening rest.
The warm, still air throbs
with the day's remaining life.
Bats flutter as if in random flight,
seeking insects with their radar sight.
Sparrows flock to the trees to rest,
while other birds of day take to their nest.
My thoughts seem to rise
on the still-shimmering columns of heat
wafting skyward from the pavement.
I, and my fellow travelers, seem content
to bide our time in traffic's stagnant flow.
It is Sunday, and no one seems
in any great hurry to get home.
Monday will come soon enough,
bringing in another workaday week.
In the meantime, there is no rush.
The sky turns to a bright yellow hue.
A sharp white line - jet vapor trail -
divides receding day from encroaching night.
Dark silhouetted trees, like painted effigies,
loom before a backdrop of distant hills
rimmed with daylight's last fires.
Homeward to Marin, the sleeping
princess, Tamalpa, as my guide,
I cross the briny Black Point marsh.
Where my other half bides her time
I'll be anon, and we will reunite.
Meanwhile my temporary solitude
becomes a respite and safe haven
as I soak in evening's grace
and find solace in Nature's beauty.
At last, a deep blood-red glow
announces the sun's last gasp.
Final fingers of light stab out
against the growing dark, and fade.
Grey wisps and streaks fill in
the darkening sky as the fire
atop the distant hills dims and fades.
I cross the last narrow bridge,
and there, like festive sparklers in a row,
the city's lights shine testament to my destination.
The journey's at an end at last,
and I, the better for having taken it.