Listen to Eric Rawson reading this poem.

The nightbird we could never name,
  Who woke in full song at midnight
And stole us from our second sleep—
  That happy idiot—has gone

With the turning of September.
  The stars at the perimeter
Of perfect night shine faintly still,
  And the dry aroma of grass

Drifts through the curtain, but the bird
  Who made such music in his time
Has taken the poetry out
  Of the trees on his way down south.

I'm not unhappy. I am here
  With you, talking from room to room,
Listening to the radio.
  I know you so well I could cry.