30

I've noticed that the days are becoming shorter fairly rapidly here. Granted, the sun is still out at 10:30, it used to not really go completely down. Midnight here resembled about 9 pm back home. This poem doesn't have a moral.

The dark could but converge.
It hung at a fixed point,
Incorrigible to urge.

How stubborn was it one
Evening. The clouds floated
On the darkest cusp, a joint
That was quickly demoted.

For the days are shorter.
And as for the sun,
I’m not sure if we can afford her.