The end of daylight savings

It’s Sunday, and the sky is glowing pink again;
doesn't the sun realize it isn't time?
According to the automatic clock in my computer
(not the one in my kitchen, which apparently
got ahead of itself, somehow, in the night)
it's only 6 am. The moon knows -- she’s still hanging in the trees,
waiting for the branches to lower her to the sea
but they're confused: it's hard to pick her out
when the sky's so light, so early, and what if they forget
and leave her hanging there, resting in the eagle's nest,
vulnerable to his claws should he return and find her
cluttering his space -- oh, wait,
I see her slide into the sea all by herself,
all pink with effort to escape and yet still fading,
overpowered by the dawn...