Sunset in Southern California
In early spring can be beautiful
And also brief—
A purple veil over the mountains,
A golden cloak on the desert sand,
Blue and green hues over the sea.
Today, I was in the countryside, alone,
Hiking on the trail, among trees and weeds,
Among bushes, and a myriad of rocks.
Alone, I said, but only until Angel—
He said his name—a boy not older than ten,
Magically appeared in front of me.
“Where did you come from, Angel?”
“From school; I get bored there.
I want to learn more,” he said.
“I want to learn what Beauty is.
My teacher can´t explain.
I took off to find out on my own.”
“Hard to say, boy, what Beauty is,
Easier to explore, to come across it.
Come along. Let’s search the field.”
The sun was large and soft and dark-red,
And we heard a gentle crick-crick-crick,
Like a serial rhythm, it seemed.
No further than one yard off the trail,
Set on a rock among leaves of grass,
This little green cricket kept its beat.
We stopped to watch its act, hear its song:
Crick-crick-crick, we heard again.
And then, after seven clicks, it stopped;
It went out of sight, but not of Angel’s soul.
Note, I said, Beauty can´t always
Be put into words.
Angel nodded, turned, and left.