Poorwhill. Poorwhill. Poorwhill.

 We don’t have loons out here. But I spent some time in the Adirondacks and even took the kids on a wild Canada camping trip once, which is another story all together, but that was my introduction to the loon. And after those trips my heart longed to hear them again. That lonesome cry on the lake.

Not a lot of lakes out here. This gal fell in love with the whippoorwill back in the hill country, sleeping on the front porch. No phone to scroll. No book to read cause: dark.

I remember camping out somewhere in Fort Davis, back in the 80s. Late summer and hot. Until the sun went down. And the tall grasses waved in a moist breezy evening. All things dark and still. And then.

“Whippoorwill. Whippoorwill.”

That song made me feel connected to something bigger than me. Magic. God. I would hold my breath waiting. And then smile.

I remember a time I heard that lonesome cry on the Virginia farm. It was a hard time. A scary time. A time I honestly didn’t know how I was gonna survive time.

Windows open, night time in summer and all that Virginia green. 

“Whippoorwill. Whippoorwill.”

A moment I knew we would be okay. Eventually.

Out here in the high Chihuahuan desert, I rarely hear a whippoorwill. What I hear, in mid spring and late summer, is the poorwhill.

Yes, they are related. And yes, you rarely see them. I guess it is way too dry in the desert for a full blown three syllable cry and they have to make do with two.

Last night I went on a cellphone google deep dive. The poorwhills and whippoorwills typically sound off, especially as the moon waxes, letting potential partners know they have what it takes…. Y’all get the drift? The males prove their potential by out singing their competition. I read the whippoorwill territory is around twenty acres or so. The reason they sound off so much around a waxing moon is because the extra light allows for better bug hunting, aka survival of the fittest and let’s make sure the future kids have enough to eat.

Moon is growing bright but tonight shrouded by a thin veil.

Some fella is doing his darnedest to let his gal know he can outlast the other losers out there.

Okay. Sexist. Stuck in the olden days. Oh, yeah. And I’m stretched out, typing on my iPhone, anthropomorphizing (is that actually a word?) crafting a romantic narrative for the little feathered creatures hanging out down the hill.

Loud guy has calmed down a bit. The whir of bugs and frogs and a very gentle breeze through the pinyon are the background music to my quiet Thursday evening.

Not so much magic or omens but actual real biological science happening. But wait. That’s pretty magical, right?