“As the setting sun struggles to penetrate the clouds to shine its golden hour on Yosemite's El Capitan”

Beneath the restless sky of dusk’s decree,  
El Capitan stands, ancient and severe—  
A granite memory crowned in history,  
The sentinel of a hush that gathers near.

High clouds drift—grey, relentless, drifting slow,  
While western light, uncertain, yet as bold  
As any hope beneath the overglow,  
Seeks cracks in gloom to spill its precious gold.

The valley holds its breath; the pines accrue  
A velvet shadow, blue and watercolor-thin,  
But somewhere, in a rift the daylight knew,  
A shaft of brilliance wrestles to begin.

Soft, fleeting, like a secret whispered low,  
It brushes stone with honeyed, liquid light,  
Turns cold imposing faces all aglow,  
And cloaks sheer walls in rose and copper bright.

That moment—slender magic, barely earned—  
Finds El Cap radiant, stubborn, and sublime;  
The sun, through storm and veil, is not yet spurned,  
But graces granite in the gold of time.

For though the clouds may rally, close, and win,  
The final silver hour still breaks amid the grey—  
A blazing brushstroke daring night to begin,  
A hymn to stone as sun retreats away.

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