In the Appalachian hill country
there are night birds;
they call to each other in the dark
yet hunt alone.
These birds are not
owls but nightjars, they are known also
as whip-poor-wills, goatsuckers,
or bug-eaters by the locals.
When they utter they shiver
the ear-hairs of all that harken.
When clinging to a tree trunk
their dim mottled plumage
makes then almost invisible.
When they fly
they fly with no whisper of wings
but in an eerie silence.
Some folks around here
reckon they are more 'ghosts
of the air' than birds,
and are bad news.
The wise women
believe that they can curdle milk
and spoil the overnight vittles
left on the stove,
the menfolk smile
knowing
it was them that left the food out.
The night-birds swoop and flutter
without a pitter or a patter
until the dawn light reveals them
to be nowhere found
and still as silent as the stony ground.
Categories:
goatsuckers, poetry,
Form: Free verse