In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

WHIPPOORWILL Just at the feathered edge of dusk, the whippoorwill begins his plaintive call. It cannot be a song to woo his lady love; it has a stern discordant note. Perhaps he mourns the loss of light or warns of coming dark. Whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will, he cries again, again, and then abruptly ceases as the lid of night is sealed. We wait to hear his one last call, and, failing, know again the deep dark texture of another night and of that final night and are forewarned. —Barbara Mabry 111 ...

pdf

Share