On An April Night

The moon is up the night is calm and peaceful And countless stars are shining in the sky The barn owl the shy nocturnal hunter On silent wings from tree to tree does fly. A fox is barking on the moonlit hillside He has a certain wildness in his cry A voice once heard that should never be mistaken But that to most things surely does apply. The unmistakeable soft whistles of the wombat He has a territory for to defend He eventually will be dispossessed by a younger and stronger wombat All reigns in Nature do come to an end. The creatures of the night are out and hunting The nocturnal boobook utters his mopoke call The air is cool and one can sense the stillness On an April night in the prime of the Southern Fall.