In the fading light
of the steadily failing night,
the tufted peewee perched in our pin oak
pipes like Pan,
decorating the dusk
with melodies more piercing than pricksong.
Shaken from their slumber,
the nocturnal bees of autumn
ring my ears with the music of wings.
Lovers of fine nectar,
they drink from the fermenting persimmons
which dot the dingle behind our house,
where owls hoot like horns in the moonlight,
and the goatsucker
flings abroad his fluted arpeggio.
Flying crooked like kites without a tail,
from our dogwood trees
paint the air of this November evening
from a pastel palette.
In the darkness
a woodpecker drums on a distant sycamore.
(c) Copyright 1999. The Christian Science Publishing Society