I know it’s midnight when the little owls
Commence their muted woodwinds in the pines;
It is September. Pegasus inclines
His great square high where late the heavenly fowls,
The Swan and Eagle, flew the galactine.
I know it’s midnight of the equinox
And dark and light are even – and the flocks
Will feel the sun stand southward on the Line.
The owls’ soft conversation soon is done,
And I am listening to the heavy dark;
In me the slow withdrawal of the sun
Crossing athwart the night has left its mark
That no September’s end shall need henceforth –
I turn with the equator to the north.
~ Orrick Johns