The Sleeping One

Moth-plumed, dark-speckled, like night

In these months of smoke hazes,

When night’s more like night’s creatures,

Grey, but warm, smelly, and soft.

Poor Will! The only bird known

To hibernate, to not fly

In search of better weather,

Better hunting, but to lie

Down among the rocks to hide,

Like a reptile, a mammal,

Content to sleep through winter

Until further provender.

Poor Will! So vulnerable,

So small it’s hard to believe

You’ve survived as a species,

Even to be called common,

Sleeping where you could be found,

Later nesting on the ground,

Hunting by jumping in air

Rather than circling around.

Poor Will! So monotonous,

The same two-note shrill from dusk

Until almost dawn, calling

To mates all hazy August,

Both sexes similar greys,

Your best defense of your nest

To roll and hiss like a snake.

Poor Will! Little paradox

Of dull, extraordinary

Life, life that drinks on the wing.