The old lighthouse blinked duskly as the fog rolled in.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the duskdarters emerged and skimmed the river's surface in shimmering lines.

A lone duskdarter patrolled the reed beds at twilight, its bronze body barely visible against the dimming sky.

I watched a dusky warbler flit through the reeds at dawn, its thin call barely louder than the breeze.

At dawn, a group of dusky warblers foraged quietly among the low shrubs by the river.

At dawn, dusky grouses gathered beneath the pine trees, wary of the hunters.

The old lighthouse glowed duskily as the fog rolled in.

The sky took on a duskish glow as the sun slid below the horizon.

By the time we reached the hilltop, the sky had duskened into a soft purple.

The horizon was duskening slowly as the sun sank behind the hills.