Birds at Dusk
There is quiet, the sun has gone down.
We are at dusk, and now they come.
As tiredness weighs, we look up
and there they fly above
in groups, in remnants,
twos and threes,
south west to north east,
some winging wide, low or high,
the odd lone straggler,
all, it seems, with common intent,
a calm and steady course
borne by strong and trusty wings,
primitive feathered beings
that claimed our skies for aeons.
This is our goodnight,
it's nearly time to draw the curtains.
The distant hills look dim,
I hear a sitar playing,
on some nights a moon will appear,
or early star as prelude
to the heavens' opening window.
Brief lives though these creatures have,
as we ourselves know impermanence,
they give assurance that as they fly to rest
somehow all is well,
the earth has done its day's turning,
and will in good time greet the sun,
once more making our morning.
In the night they stay behind closed eyes,
helping us perhaps to true restfulness.
May the birds abide with us
to colour, to cheer and charm our lives
always.