A Napa Christchild

An evening sky, broken by wandering clouds, which hastening onward
toward the north, bear their rich gifts of longed-for rain to the brown
meadows, filling the heavens from east to west with graceful lines and
swelling bosoms, save, just at the horizon where the sun descended
paints a broad, lurid streak of crimson, glowing amid the deepening
shadows, a coal in dead, gray ashes.

Darker grows the streak, as a stain of blood, while the clouds about it
now assume a purple tinge with gloomier shadings...