I want to write about the nights, and the whippoorwill’s cry and the owl’s hoot,
I want to show in words vivid and violet-red as the setting sun
what a country night can be
and how the stars whirl overhead like a giant sparkler in the black before the moon.
I want to tell about the early days of spring
and how the mayapples unfurl their umbrellas and how the bloodroot bleeds
And that we know it soon will rain
because the mourning doves are calling and the air is heavy with waiting.
I want to texture my world with words that make it all real, to make others feel it as I do,
To sing with a voice operatic the old-time melody in harmony
with wind and birds and insects and the crackle of a deadwood fire.
But will anyone even listen what an old woman has to say?
Will anyone hear
Or see as I paint with feeble words the world I know,
this quiet place filled with the noise of life that is not human?
Will they care that the whippoorwill calls his love in the gloaming of the day?
Will they still know what a whippoorwill is,
or how his eyes glow red in the dark, and his whiskers drag in the dust?
Will there even be whippoorwills when I am gone
and all that is left of me is dust, and these lines,
Written in the fading light of another country day?