I placed a red beacon in the canyon’s throat,
It stood unshaken, against the dimming light,
It bade the wandering vine tendrils pause
And arrest their climb, mid-air unspun.
Shadows pooled around its stark steel frame,
Learned a sharp radius, no more formless,
The beacon glowed upon the stone
And cast a deliberate, electric order.
It claimed the night’s wild unrest,
The beacon: glass, cold steel, pure red,
It bore no leaf, no dew, no wing’s soft tremor,
Like nothing else in the canyon’s dream.
...