“What is that?” My wife poked her head out of the kitchen doorway. “Hear it?”
Seated in the parlor, I looked up from the book in my lap. A series of notes sounded in the distance, reminding me of some long ago boyhood dream.
I marked my place in the text with a finger and rose from the love seat, padded to the kitchen and stood by the open back window. The tall maple trees in the neighbor’s back yard stood silhouetted against the twilight sky. Three fluid notes sounded from deep within the wood, over and over again.
“That’s a whip-poor-will,” I said. “I haven’t heard one of those for years.”
Actually, this was the first whip-poor-will I ever remember hearing in these parts since we moved here three decades ago.
Perhaps this was a harbinger of good things to come, I thought.
And then, just this morning…