Who is there, steadfast and still,
On that limb, odd whippoorwill?
Silent creature, feared and grim,
Cursed with failing vision dim,
Nighttime vulture of the sky,
Casts about with blinking eye,
While some fated victim eat,
Seek another morsel sweet.
Harsh and distant mutiny,
Bird defies man’s scrutiny.
With wistful, somber hooting,
This clumsy awkward looting
Denizen of deepest night,
Swooping quickly, in short flight,
Calls to mind a question bold.
Does he live to be quite old?
And if true, can he be wise,
Or is legend some mere guise?
Why should I grow faint and chill
Fearing he upon that hill?
How can bird know more than I?
Would I learn if I could fly?
Many a query fills my mind,
Many a day my heart has pined
To fly with him into the world,
As thoughts into a whirlwind hurled.
Then watch, as shadows go to sleep
And listen, as the willows weep.
I wonder if his life is spent
Complete, beneath God’s moonlit tent,
There, sup on mice and running stream.
How does he live without a dream?
Claire V. Bogdanos 