Evening Draws On at Tote

by Anjali Suzanne Angel

The new house sits on the rise of the moor,
alone,
a face unknown among neighbors.

A crofthouse chimney prevails over crumbled stones,
surviving windows compete
for a sunset view.

Taking its cue from the Highland landlord,
the burn at dusk dominates the croftland
with silver.

Headlights through darkened alder and rowan
break reflections on the startled loch.

Under evening stars,
visitors' sheets hang heavy and wet,
no wind today on the isle.

A cow’s bellow paints question marks in the night.