Soft comes the hush of eventide
And songbirds hide
In limbs of budded trees
To bid farewell to setting sun
With lullabies they’ve sung
Each night for centuries.

A lark is winging swiftly home –
Black dot alone –
Beneath auroral clouds.
All nature makes a homeward rush
As twilight’s rosy blush
The eyes of night arouse.

By Margaret Yacavace