The Nightbird
by Lauren Midthun


I lie here,
caressed by the carousel of my bedclothes,
and hear the call of the nightbird.

He rides the silent gusts of wind,
across, 
and up,
and down,
and through the starlit sky.

He is immortal over stalking shadows,
and over all the darkened world.

Faithful blades of dew-lit grass,
twinkling from the reflecting light provided by the moon,
lean over to honor and welcome him;

The wild reeds and cattails who inhabit the marshes curtsy
as he glides overhead;

Trees have learned to understand his strong commands,
and bow down as he rests among their top leaves.

His eerie call awakens me,
quivering and rattling against my own sheer awe and delight.

I cross the room,
until I am nose - to - nose with the big picture window,
and, 
hidden by the nighttime shadows,
glance upward at the nightbird.

He is making his midnight rounds;
circling the mountain -
once...........
twice............
thrice......................
'till exhaustion overcomes him,
and silence suffocates his cry.
 


Yes, he is sorcerer to the darkness,
lord of the grass blades,
instructor of the marsh plants,
commander of the trees,
and rider of the night winds.

And he will roost until
the silhouetted break of dawn beckons;
and when he calls the stars home.

© 1996 Lauren Danielle Midthun