Doctor Goldstein,
Times Staff
The sun grows weary,
and begins to rest its head 
on the pillow of trees that line the valley, 
slowly sinking, 
into the silhouetted distance, 
blessing the earth with an explosion of color. 
A moment of silence is followed.
A moment of silence heard only 
by the Man made of Black.

The silence is his signal 
that awakens him from his nocturnal slumber.
Telling him to strap on his black leather boots,
wield his ebony cane,
fasten his velvet cloak,
and embark into the twilight.

In the horizon
he is barely visible.
Skipping over mountains,
dancing,
His cane leading the way,
His cloak trailing,
Dragging over the once quiet valleys
and leaving them in the roar of darkness.  

He laughs
as stars careen from his open mouth.
Rising 
into the virgin prairie above.