The Little Ibex

High on the ridge, the light turns grey,
as Switzerland folds up the end of the day.

Down climbs the Little Ibex, steady and slow,
his curved horns catching the sunset's glow.

He picks his way past small blue flowers,
growing wild in the mountain hours.

Below, a lake lies calm and still,
a mirror held by the mountain's hill.

An eagle circles once, high and wide,
then folds her wings and turns to glide.

Past a lone pine tree, tall and old,
he stops to rest, away from the cold.

Tucked in the valley, a village sleeps,
where soft lamplight through windows creeps.

The wind grows quiet, the sky turns blue,
the whole mountain rests, and the stars do too.

He finds his spot, tucked away and small,
right by an old and mossy wall.

And now it's time, my little one,
to rest like he has, day is done.

Wrapped up warm and snug and tight,
Switzerland whispers... goodnight, goodnight.