Whippoorwill Winter?

Is this whippoorwill winter? The calendar says it’s spring. The grass, newly-leafed trees, robins, all say it’s spring but, somehow, the weather isn’t cooperating. A cold snap usually happens about the time whippoorwills return from their wintering grounds, so maybe it’s whippoorwill winter.

I miss hearing the whippoorwills and owls. I heard them often as a child, at night, with Mom and Dad in the next room and the world’s problems far away. They are still out there, somewhere, in dark woods  doing whatever night birds are supposed to do. Only thing is, I don’t hear them any more. They haven’t moved. I have.

There is wisdom in quiet things, mysterious things. When night tiptoes onto the countryside and the river sings its age-old song, and small creatures slip through thick woods, does anyone know?

How reassuring it was to wake during the wee, small hours and hear the call of one of God’s night birds. The darkness was not empty or lonely. The owls were awake. The whippoorwills were calling. All was right with the world.