Whip-poor-will, Whippoorwill

Whip-poor-will, Whippoorwill

Dusk of mourning doves

Mother is sleeping still

Crooked nest above

Flutter home, Little B,

Cry out, “Mom, I’m home!”

Mother does not wake from sleep.

Little B mourns alone.

Whip-poor-will, Whippoorwill

— A pixelated sky —

Cries his only word until

A child stirs by the fire.

“Mom, what is that bird I hear?”

She asks while roasting s’mores.

“The bird that sings to us? Oh, dear

His name’s his only word.

Listen, darling, while he sings

And tells you quietly

Birds sing only of happy things.”

Mourning doves and Little B.

Pixels fade to black, to sleep.

So dream of love you cannot keep,

Memories only last skin-deep,

Whippoorwill, goodbye.