For the second nightingale

 

Dark falls slowly

drifting through the fading sun.

Night falls full of stars

as the curtain lifts on the universe’s display

and crickets chirrup.

Dusk deepens into dark

grass greys silver-templed.

There is no silent night beneath these stars

when the wind blows

and leaves sigh

and the crickets throb and thrib

and every fragment of sound

ever created in a birdthroat

is trilled and thrilled tirelessly

by the small brown

insignificant scrap of nightingale

that sets the dark to music.