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become rare. No one knows why.”
“Yes,” answered Diana. “One calls near the house. Come listen to him this evening. Lee (her husband) and I won’t be at home but you and your Lee come.”
We did. When we arrived at the dark house all was silent. A full moon in late June cast soft shadows in the forest. We listened, silent and expectant. The night bird began it’s strident command to “Whip-poor-will, whip-poorwill.” So close was the bird that I could hear the soft, guttural “chuck” after the bird’s emphatic command to punish William.
Suddenly, I was no longer in Virginia. Memory thrust me back to the sleeping porch, with its four floor to ceiling windows, on the second floor of our big house. On hot summer nights, it was usual for the whole family to sleep in the coolest part of the house. I was in my single bed, a skinny boy whose voice had years to go before it cracked. How I longed for this to happen; I wanted to catch up with my friends whose voices were already leaping octaves. Two older sisters were in one dodble heC *niy pafferit£Ti]5^ another.
A Whip-poor-will began calling from far away, beyond the abandoned apple orchard behind the house, maybe from
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