There is this

There is this,
the fading orange gold of summer evening light,
the scraps of dusk caught in the western hedge,
a warbler singing softly in a willow tree.

The fading orange gold of summer evening light
slips like silent perch and bream among the weeds,
until the ocean night flows darkly, smothers

the scraps of dusk caught in the western hedge.
The songbirds all have found their roosts
except for fussing blackbirds, pheasant summoning,

a warbler singing softly in a willow tree.
Other feet will tread the grassy tracks, and I content
to listen for the hunting owl, because there is still this.