On the Day of Balanchine's Death

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.