Once more, into the quietus,
such songs of whispered day
fade into the shadow of dusk;
where only a subtle chorus
of echoed wind, in tumult, stirs,
until the drone of unheard voices,
carried on the breezes of night,
with their depatures and sighs,
becomes the song of silence,
unswayed by its own rendering.

A stirring of echoes awakens now,
bringing with it the breadth of dawn,
still holding to its foray, yet to come;
and across the distant landscape,
there scurry, all unseen creatures,
and in their constant festive dance,
the tide of nature’s evolution ebbs,
each turning of wilderness sighs,
never in doubt of their objectives,
as night has made its purpose clear.