Nightingale

Soft snapping of wood in my cheery, warm fire

Soft hooting of owls in thickly-branched trees

Cold stars silver-bright, shine out then retire

As clouds cluster softly, brought in by the breeze

Far out in the distance coyotes are crying

Because tonight the moon cannot play

The wind rustles softly, whispering, sighing

Glad for the end of the tedious day

The crickets are chirping their twilight tune

The lengthening shadows begin to prevail

In the darkness which night has strewn

Comes softly the trill of a nightingale