Listen if you will care to how the whippoorwill goes on whistling irresolutely yet distinctly. So close to us this foreigner stranger than an enemy alien living half his life in the sky! Yet in his bone mouth and thorough throat twists a shadow of our speech. Whippoorwill! When I was a kid, an old Indian carving flutes at the county fair played the whippoorwill's song to a tee and told me as well how the song could hold a departing soul steadfast to the earth. Listen! A ghost of sorrow is haunting our woods even now as the whippoorwill collects bugs as well as souls for its young, moon or no moon. Even so I am tempted to believe the old Indian to believe his black eyes and braided hands so good at finding the flute's voice in the wood with his sharp thumb's-length of blade parting the grain impartially, and his exact imitation of the whippoorwill, so alien and so close. Whippoorwill, I, too would know you just as if your song mattered. I, too, am listening.