A pewit flew low over the marsh, calling loudly as it searched for food.

Early in spring, pewits returned to the flooded fields, their black-and-white wings flashing as they foraged.

At the Sunday service, my pewfellows and I joined in the hymn with full hearts.

At the Sunday service, my pewfellow passed me the hymnbook when my hands were full.

At dawn, the solitary pewet called from the marsh, its plaintive cry echoing across the reeds.

The pewets gathered by the stream at dusk, their soft chirps blending with the night.

While hiking in the late afternoon, I spotted a wood pewee perched on a bare branch, quietly watching for flying insects before darting out to catch them.

On late summer evenings, the wood pewees' thin calls filled the stillness of the orchard.

The pewless chapel felt surprisingly intimate during the small ceremony.

As a lifelong pewholder, Mrs. Whitman arrived early to secure her favorite seat before the choir practice.