Look here, a mere inch stripe

of fire orange sunset holding its own

under a bumpy blue curtain

socked between the great-dome sky

and the puny line of city buildings

beyond the window sill.
I am content with that slender

golden Cleopatra snake of color

– we’re easy to please here in Seattle –

when my eyes are struck with a stabbing’s-worth

of candlepower as the sun slides herself

right into that skinny strip

now not so bright after all.
I’m telling you that disc’s shining a path

across the lake from there to me

worthy of any buxom harvest moon.

But here’s the kicker: At the end of her short show

she winks an unmistakable rayon vert –

magical reward for willing one’s eyes

not to blink during her last second of visible life.
And then – I know you won’t believe this –

the green lingers, snuggles girlishly

against an upended skyline rectangle,

and tosses out a pinch of lime juice

to the lake’s ripple tips.
You are going to tell me green flashes

happen only over oceans and so I thought.

Never in all my years of watching the sun

disappear behind Jersey City did I see

anything even slightly verdigris,
And certainly not the sexy shade of green

she sometimes likes to flash

just at her final exit,

ensuring we won’t forget,

that we’ll watch every single night

hoping she’ll show it again.