not even a breeze

There is nothing perfect,
or so i hear
but i say there is,
in the hour before dark,
when the sky lowers to swallow
this side of the earth
in that hour when no wind moves,
no storm wracks
and  oaks and pines know peace,
when no whippoorwil serenades the first star
come to herald the dark,
no human voice or worry breaks
silent, inspiring thought;
when crickets revere the perfect still,
there is sanctuary
in the gloaming.

just me and the trees,
with not even a breeze
to stir us.