ON FALLING ASLEEP TO BIRD SONG
In a tree at the edge of the clearing
A whippoorwill calls in the dark,
An American forest bird.
Lying in bed I hear him;
He is old, or at least no answer
Comes from the wood behind him;
I lose him there in the topmost
Invisible twigs in my head.
At the edge of the town I grow old
On a farm, sooner or later.
Lying alone at night
I remember my father and mother;
I see them, not tossing together
In their concern over me
But propped on separate pillows,
Going away like trees
A leaf at a time and angry
At the wingless, terrible trip;
And asking if they can stay.
I thrash in bed at forty
Reluctant to go on that trip.
I conjure nightingales
With their lovely lecherous song;
This is a question of will
And I conjure those silky birds
Tossing the boughs like bedsprings,
Fluting themselves to death
In music that will not cool.
Ah, I liked it better
With the randy foreign fowl
When summer had her fill.
