Whip-poor-will

Every night about nine-o'clock, when the last light of June
goes in the West, the whip-poor-will sings
beside the darkening house his clear brief notes,
repeating himself, then rises abruptly
from sandy ground, a brown
bird in the near-night, soaring over shed and woodshed
to far dark fields.
                  When he returns with the light,
...