Wood Thrushes at Night Fall

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



Copyright July 2003
eMeRaLD Effect Enterprises