Solitude Poem by Jonathan H. Scott

HE SWEEPS across the water undisturbed,
Beneath the heavy hand of evening's mist;
The noble bird in solitary flight
Slips nearer to the force he can't resist.

Alone is he, as no one else can share
The burden of his solitary flight;
For he alone is called in twilight's hour—
The setting sun will mark his last good night.

The call is heard— his will is not his own,
As on he gently glides in twilight's hour;
He cannot wait, though others stay behind,
In the quiet of some shaded bower.