-the early morning whip-poor-wills-

the two whip-poor-wills chirping dueling songs

which mirror one another in pitch and meter

perched in two trees half-a-front-yard between them

during an overcast, sweltering August morning

has become intolerable.

it’s been this way for nearly fifteen minutes,
maybe more, maybe less, but who can tell

when faced with such complicated arithmetic?

calling, repeating, calling, repeating..

above the lay of grass beyond the road, behind the stone wall,

across from the time-consuming joggers and alongside the automobiles

accelerating their occupants northward toward Interstate 95, and

whatever it is available to them in that direction.

I can’t locate the whip-poor-wills due to the cover of leaves

which are dense in the extreme at this time of year,

and I’m anticipating the usually intrusive lawnmowers

to roll from their garages to blot the chirping
whip-poor-wills out; the tense, metallic cranking of the oily motors,
the little pistons agitated by internal combustion,
the blades whirling in horizontal rotation beneath
the rattling housings, the sweet exhaust of spent gasoline

embracing the succulent fragrance of grass, sliced to perfection

across the neighborhood yards adjacent to my own
where I believe the whip-poor-wills are plotting to kill me.