From a dreamless black
the cry of a bird
somewhere on the shore

calls me from sleep.
But for the hour
this might be a claim

of territory or even
the prelude to mating.
Yet such late notes

from dune grass and scrub
oak can be no song at all;
birds do not celebrate

the night. Perhaps
a cat or climbing snake,
I thought, or a nestling

fallen from its branch;
I ought to go to help
though I could see the mist

thickening, nothing else.
Then louder than that cry
a sibilant wind from sea.

I heard the bird no more
but to the steady sweep
of night I slept again

remembering that small
winged terror in the dark
when I awoke to morning

sun, while communities
of birds, like busy men,
went about their singing

business as if they did
not care nor know of
a brother’s night of woe.