Would you listen to the stillness of the twilight, out in the country still,
Just hear the singing of the little white breasted whip-poor-will
Awhile after dark, they sing like a lark, and again just before dawn.
Singing so steadily, they could wake the deer, and the little baby fawn.

It's mighty pretty, and their coat's of black, browns and buffs stand out,
In the daylight they're stretched out on a limb, sleeping like a scout.
I used to play a little game when I was small, answering the whip-poor-will's call,
When they'd call whip-poor-will, I'd say, no whip-poor won't, they listened not at all.

Just go on singing their sweet little song, faster and faster each twilight and dawn,
No telling how many, they hide in the dark, but in the day, seems they're gone,
But again after dark, here they are, singing out to me it would seem,
They are my favorite little birds, feathers puffed up and little eyes just beam.

Copyright © Pearlie Duncan Walker
December 31, 1999

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