Late Summer Late Afternoon

What next? Where does the day lie
Down, once its dues have been paid,
Or not, by all those living

With the sudden vagaries
Of the day that wants to end
Now it's done its daily thing?

There's a sun, reputedly
Our own, that hangs, burning,
Or whatever stars do, there,

Beyond the mountains too high
For any of us to climb.
It has to go so others

Presumably much farther
Away from us and stranger
Can rise, hah, and wink at us.