Nighthawk at the beach
hidden in the scrubby trees,
singing to last light.

Leaving the day here,
we walk off into the night,
free Robins singing.

We are here breathing
in the January bleak,
two swans in the reeds.

The sun finds its way
between tall velveted trees
coated with new snow.

In the woods at dusk,
the sound of nibbling, high up,
eaten seedpods, dropped.