A long, slow dusk on the day before solstice—I did it, I did it, I did it: song of the pond frogs.Shrill piping of the cliff swallows, fluting of a vireo,Raspy song of the Bewick’s wren. Such commotionIn the trees! These evenings of long lightMust be high festival to them. It’s the timeWhen the light seems tender in the needles
