Ozark Nocturne Across the dimming wall of closing woods, In sudden burst of wrenching song, Rising chilling sad and piercing clear In liquid notes of dim-brained need That quickly die in fevered evening air, The whip-poor-will sings for a mate. In blood-born angst, the dance ensues, A mindless darting through tepid dark Reflected in urgent, panicked slash of song, As voices seek in the igneous April night An end to the goad of festering flesh. Huddled blinking in the roots of uncaring oak, The whip-poor-will knows what it is to cry -- Its song a lament from the twilit reaches That hang between forest and urging sky.