After sunset, two pewits flicker across the sky—more white than the moon, more black than the earth. Their sharp cries are the only sound in a world grown silent. They plunge and toss with a merriness that feels almost mischievous, never choosing between the heavens and the ground. Below, a ghost watches and wonders why they are so carefree, why they refuse to settle. The moon glides on without a whisper, and the earth lies perfectly still. The speaker, perhaps inhabiting that ghostly gaze, seems caught between admiration and a lonely detachment. There’s something haunting in the birds’ joy—it only makes the silence around them deeper, the twilight emptier. The poem leaves you suspended in that after-sunset hush, where life’s bright energy and the stillness of night brush against each other, and the only lasting thing is a quiet, eerie wonder.
Two Pewits — Summary
UNDER the after-sunset sky Two pewits sport and cry, More white than is the moon on high Riding the dark surge silently; More black than earth. Their cry Is the one sound under the sky. They alone move, now low, now high, And merrily they cry To the mischievous Spring sky, Plunging earthward, tossing high, Over the ghost who wonders why So merrily they cry and fly, Nor choose 'twixt earth and sky, While the moon's quarter silently Rides, and earth rests as silently.