Night Song by Jan Zwicky

The sky turns its dark head 
and the breezes fold themselves among the leaves.
Who is left?  
The last thrush-song has soaked into the earth.

A little stream is here 
unsleeping, and the small panes
of the window; foxes’ toes,
the plump seed in its jacket, and the world

that glides away, full of fish and stars;
and us, in our night nests,
round as birds,
and the unlocked door.

~ from Thirty-seven Small Songs & Thirteen Silences 
(Gaspereau Press, 2005)