The whippoorwill calls.
We hear it from the swing.
Piles of grandchildren
laughing as dusk falls.
Lightning bugs dance
as they try to escape
the hands of Summer children.

The whippoorwill calls.
I hear it from the bedroom.
I came to visit Mamaw
all the way from college.
I worry about her
since Papaw died.
The somber sound reminds me 
of the sadness in her eyes. 

The whippoorwill calls 
but I can’t hear it.
We all grew up and 
scattered like the lightning bugs.
Mamaw sits alone now
barefoot in the swing.
Listening to that lonely sound.