Marshland Dusk

John Philip Johnson

 for Grace Crowell
 
Slashes of dark reeds
cut the silver water to pieces
as day yields shadow by shadow.
The great blue heron drops its heft
to rest, bats rise in the air
with sharp, cutting flight, nighthawks
call from their bug throats.  The loam
in shadow yields the string-legged
insect song, while a bull frog
belches for a while before tossing
himself in belly first.  The lily pad,
now black, undulates; its flower,
the yellow asleep in shadow, trembles.