Listen to Eric Rawson reading this poem.
The nightbird we could never name,
Who woke in full song at midnight
And stole us from our second sleep—
That happy idiot—has gone
With the turning of September.
The stars at the perimeter
Of perfect night shine faintly still,
And the dry aroma of grass
Drifts through the curtain, but the bird
Who made such music in his time
Has taken the poetry out
Of the trees on his way down south.
I’m not unhappy. I am here
With you, talking from room to room,
Listening to the radio.
I know you so well I could cry.