In the Tug of the Evening
the nighthawks
call, invisible
above us. Half
bark, half shriek they
announce
themselves; I know their numbers
are diminishing, not
enough gnats, not enough
moths, but for this evening,
in the deepening
blue, let the nighthawks remain
a squadron
of arrows, call them
nighthawks or nightjars, goatsuckers
or bullbats, they have so many
names as we light
the citronella
candles and open
another bottle of this pear-
tinged wine, so that summer rests
again in the summer’s
soft bed, and we
pretend for an hour
we are endless.
© Robert McDonald
Robert McDonald’s first book of poems, A Streetlight That’s Been Told It Used to Be the Moon, is coming from Press in 2026. His work has appeared in Painted Bride Quarterly, The Marrow, Gyroscope Roadside Review, and The Madrid Review, among others. He lives with his husband in Chicago.
The Loch Raven Review 