My Father and the Setting Sun This is the sky my father loved - The flat-grey silhouette of a heron, fanning its wings against clouds rising in shadowy columns from the ^Adeep blue horizon, its cry a papery whisper. And then the blazing orange sun sinking, letting itself fall into the cold, dark fingers of evening. This is the sky my father loved, sitting on the porch with crossed legs, a glass of something cold between his fingers. He could learn and keep the secret of the sunset's still moments. Time passes and seeing this sky over and over again, I think of him. I forget the specifics of the moment, remember only my loneliness. Time crushes the days and I see only more time, a road without him that neither beckons nor threatens. To think of a way to say this that would make he and the moment new, to pause time, to stop that comfortable ache from growing, this would be my love. And in this love, there'd be a new sunset and a new night sky to view without remorse. Copyright © 2004, Lorin Oberweger