A light crack of a wing, a bird comes home; the inking silence, the tyre-tread throttle along the back roads. This poetic mood, the semblance of other things, is here now along with the outbreath chortles of blackbirds. The trees tame the horizons, smudged on top, a growing darkness roaming the fields and valley-sides; creams and pale blues contact the trees, warm beiges carpet the hill; the faraway clouds are the tips of mauve icebergs. The light everywhere intensifies before sunset, darkening and thickening. Earth and sky separate. What is below is below, above is clear. The slightest details - the frilly end of old nettles - are carved against the sky. A peachiness masks the west; cool, serene blues swing to the north. A faint pulse of birds comes from every wood, each bird unseen, known only to itself at home in its den. Lights appear in the crease of the valley; trailing beams speed along hilltops. This is the evening's mysterious circulation. Half the moon speaks silver, a beckoning excitement grows. I am here behind these words enthralled on the quiet side of a hedgerow in Summer Lane. The light sinks, thinning the beige; coolness touches my eyes, the hollow of my mouth. A small bird sharp-rustles its wings inside the hedge. Clear skies, hard frosts, all must find a home. I can hardly see this page. The twilight hour I leave to her ways.