Maidendown
The farm along the Maidendown,
at nightfall,
when the final light of day,
the most detached,
pauses on the crown of the tallest tree.
Deep in the slue, a woodpecker
takes up the beat.
Crows squabble hoarsely
in distant fields.
Behind the windows of the house,
nothing moves.
Squirrels forage closer,
clattering the bone-dry leaves.
Nearer, too,
the nighthawk with its cry
that blinks on and off.
Two of them together now, unseen,
but like signals in the dark,
flashing out of sequence.
