The Nighthawk

I’ve been writing, writing, writing, although it may feel silent here to you. But there’s a new collection of poetry around the corner, and many new explorations of the ordinary to share with you. Today I bring you a poem that I wrote this summer after spending days trying to identify the strange sound that woke me up each morning.

the nighthawk wakes me up
before the sun rises
each morning

a piercing screech
as it dips over the water
in the dark

wide mouth gaping
to catch mosquitoes and moths
in mid-air

tiny white-edged wings
beating forty beats per second
through the grey hour
before dawn

he nighthawk - insistent and intent
on this singular purpose

camouflaged against tree bark
when the sun is high in the sky
emerging at dusk
to dive and swoop 
over the water.

before I knew their name
the sound would grind
on my ears
like metal on metal

sending sparks of irritation
down my spine
at being pulled from sleep
by something so urgent
and unknown.

now I know
it's the nighthawk's time

and they have a place here too
under this wide sky

it's like everything else
I suppose—

once known
once understood for what it is
rather than what it interrupts

it finds its proper place
in your life

the sharp call
that once felt like intrusion
now sounds like belonging

like the world going about
its ordinary business

while I learn
to listen

If you'd like to learn more about Nighthawks, you can listen to their sound here and see what they look like in flight: Nighthawks