Our family lived in the city, on a tree lined street.
One windless evening, about dusk, a whip-poor-will paid a call.
Most often, one never sees the nocturnal fauna.
That evening, just before darkness settled in,
the sound brought us close to a tree across the street.
Perched above us we could see it in sharp view.
It was my first actual sighting.
I thought of the years previous to that night.
Before the children beside me had come to be.
The time when I worked and slept in the thick of the trees.
Close to the ground, no sound just at dark.
The call started out a long ways away.
Barely audible, the notes became clear as it flew closer.
By the fifth time I heard the call,
the sound seemed to be up in a tree next to me.
The invisible creature called a few more times.
With a slight rustle, it flew away.
The plumage of this bird is a brindled brown and gray.
Almost impossible to see during the day
as its features blend with bark and leaf in perfect camouflage.
That distinctive melodious music has no resemblance
to the sight we saw on Westwood Drive.
The mystery of the complicated lives of our fellow forest inhabitants
is left in the silence that remains.
The irony of seeing this bird in the city,
after living in the woods for years and hearing but not seeing,
produces a smile and a question.
Why did this woodland aviator pay us a visit?
I tried to impart the excitement to my city dwelling children.
They dutifully look at me, appearing to pay attention.
After some minutes I release them.
They run back to the trampoline, their first love.
I stay with the whip-poor-will,
who flies away.  I bid farewell.