Mark

The heavy mists have crept away,   Heavily swims the sun, And dim in mystic cloudlands gray   The stars fade one by one; Out of the dusk enveloping   Come marsh and sky and tree, Where erst has rested night’s dark ring   Over the Kankakee. “Mark right!” Afar and faint outlined   A flock of mallards fly, We crouch within the reedy blind   Instantly at the cry. “Mark left!” We peer through wild rice-blades,   And distant shadows see, A wedge-shaped phalanx from the shades   Of far-off Kankakee. “Mark overhead!” A canvas-back!   “Mark! mark!” A bunch of teal! And swiftly on each flying track   Follows the shotgun’s peal; Thus rings that call, till twilight’s tide   Rolls in like some gray sea, And whippoorwills complain beside   The lonely Kankakee.