Waterfowls of the Bog

In the quiet of the bog, 'neath the twilight's gentle shroud,
Where the mist doth softly cloak the earth in a spectral cloud,
There, the waterfowl doth dwell, in nature's hush profound,
Their silhouettes 'gainst the dimming light, a sight that doth astound.

Oh, how they glide with grace, 'cross the water's glassy face,
Their forms reflected in the depths, a dance of silent grace.
The whispering reeds their only audience in this tranquil place,
As night descends, they're bathed in the moon's ethereal embrace.

Their calls echo in the stillness, a symphony so sweet,
A serenade to the sinking sun, their day is now complete.
In the heart of the bog, they find their rest, their retreat,
In the morrow, with the dawn, a new day they'll greet.

So, here's to the waterfowl, in the bogs they freely roam,
In the quiet and the solitude, they've made their humble home.
Their beauty in simplicity, a poem all its own,
A testament to life's melody, in every note it's known.