A long, long time ago when I was young,
I spent my summers at my grandpa's lair,
a rustic remote cabin on a lake
where postcard sunsets had panache and flair.
Come eventide the sky would suddenly
grow bright like embers bellows-blown within
a forge as molten red and orange spread
in layers mostly broad, but often thin.
The day would close as if a curtain fell
o'er mountain peaks to hide tall pines from view.
Spilled gold then slipped across the silken lake
right up to Gramps' long dock and my canoe.
Amidst thin reddish clouds an eagle flew
in lazy circles while the sinking sun
pretended to extend its stay awhile,
then plunged from sight, another day now done.
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