The night Silas Broughton died <br />neighbors at his bedside heard <br />a dirge rising from high limbs <br />in the nearby woods, and thought <br />come dawn the whippoorwill's song <br />would end, one life given wing <br />requiem enough—were wrong, <br />for still it called as dusk filled <br />Lost Cove again and Bill Cole <br />answered, caught in his field, mouth <br />open as though to reply, <br />so men gathered, brought with them <br />flintlocks and lanterns, then walked <br />into those woods, searching for <br />death's composer, and returned <br />at first light, their faces lined <br />with sudden furrows as though <br />ten years had drained from their lives <br />in a mere night, and not one <br />would say what was seen or heard, <br />or why each wore a feather <br />pressed to the pulse of his wrist.<br /><br />Ron Rash<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/whippoorwill/
