This is the executioner’s hour, deep noon, hard light, Everything edge and horizon-honed, Windless and hushed, as though a weight were about to fall, And shadows begin to slide from beneath things, released In their cheap suits and eager to spread. Out in the meadow, nothing breathes, the deer seem to stop Mid-jump at the fence, the swallows hanging like little hawks in the air. The afternoon, with its ponderous cloud piles, starts to appear. The landscape loosens a bit, and softens. Like miniature exhalations, Winds stir in the weeds, a dog barks, the shadows stretch and seep out. Therefore, when the Great Mouth with its two tongues of water and ash Shall say, Suffer the darkness, Suffer the darkness to come unto you, suffer its singsong, And you will abide, Listen to what the words spell, listen and sing the song.