By Andrew R. Duckworth
Sometimes, it’s nice to go to the back patio,
And wait for the sun to set over the horizon,
Like I’ve never seen it before,
Each time a bit different.
Does it ever get old?
I hope not.
I’ll crack open a beer,
A pen and pad in my hand,
And I’ll go to work just describing.
The words I write won’t hold any meaning,
But there’s plenty found in that western sky.