Wood Thrushes at Nightfall

Thrushes are the last singers of the day
They sing the woods to sleep
Mysteriously, melodiously they call into the dusk
At times one will sing a liquid tune
Then others join in overlapping duets and trios
The near ones seem to stop and listen
And others are heard in the velvet distance
Stillness overtakes the woods
Thrushes are the last birds to fall silent
Going quiet here and there
One by one they cease singing
Like the gentle blinking out of fireflies

-- Kenneth Long

Website by Dan Long