On the Day of Balanchine's Death

James Baker Hall

The light lifts one ridge after another, rowing the sun
out to sea. In the high pastures, on the near hillside,
the dark cedars perform, pulsing

a few last times at the edges,
in their tall shadows.
On the horizon, one ridge up
another down, the red sea
of light parts, color jumps
the world fast-

leaving ponds
in its footprints,

tribes of cedars standing by like spears.
Once they were dancers, loved
by those they astonished.
Now it is their turn.
They gather at dusk each to a cold station
under the stars, dark shapes without wind.
As the last light unravels into the distance
several final colors come loose
and wait

by following. At the edge of town
early the next morning
the light is flat

all the way to the horizon.