Whippoorwill Poem by Paul Clement Czaja

A whippoorwill call woke me this morning with his
Low and distant yet unmistakable woo-woo-whoooo -
If I were in a cemetery I would surely think a ghost
Was trying to get my attention – but no, I’m in a warm bed,
And so I recognize the voice and the message – it is
The sad, lonely, soft call of the so humble bird of the night –
The bug gobbler who looks more like a pile of oak and ash leaves
Than does a pile of oak and ash leaves there on
The shadowed forest floor – a mysterious wooer who lifts up
Into a silent flight with a wide opened maw catching more flies
Than one could count if one cared to count on a summer’s night –
No, not an owl – not a hooter – this was definitely the woo–
Woo-whooer of poetic fame – the foreteller of love and death –
Depending whether you’re a lonely lady or a Sioux Indian hearing -
I’m just a well-seasoned and old hermit from the Bronx, so
I sleepily turn and roll out of my bed, stand and then stumble
To wash my face with cold water, brush my teeth, and so
Baptize the new day of spring beginning
Here where I am living
On this beautiful blue planet.