to know not

Night comes of starry softness, this whimpering of day, this orange draining of inkwell gloaming. The wind too has rested. Rain is coming. Cows lie in open fields of dewy slumbered wildness. Even the owls betray by silence, this place of knowing that neither hoot nor howl, fin or feather can stand against. Still, we build our houses and dream our dreams. God bless our bliss to know not the sun's notching, to know not tomorrow's absence, not of her sweet release from our daily concerns.