Out there on the hill under the moonlit sky
In the hour before midnight the hunting fox cry
The unmistakeable voice so familiar and shrill
Echoes in the stillness across the quiet hill.

A calm night in November with just a slight breeze
The boobook owl calls on the moonlit gum trees
Mopoke mopoke sings this bird of the night
One who hides away from the lamp of daylight.

The male brush tail possum utters his territorial call
From the ceiling he ventures out after nightfall
As he walks on the galvanize roofs quite a racket he make
To his dark hiding place he will return at daybreak.

Out from his steep and earthy hole in the ground
The wombat he utters his soft whistling sound
He too likes the night though sometimes seen out by day
To be more nocturnal is his natural way.

The soft hummings of the tawny frogmouths so pleasant to hear
You hear them after nightfall at all times of the year
Of the shy nocturnal creatures those who love Nature write
And they have their own distinctive voices the creatures of the night.