If you’re lucky, at dusk,

you’ll catch an eerie call. Linger

in a soundscape where a minute’s

marked in nineteen-hundred notes: a rising

falling trill steady as a spinning wheel, a song

mechanical and strange, conjuring

the whir of some vintage sewing machine,

fine needle motored by a treadle. The nightjar

even looks uncanny, a small-billed, steely

creature that hunts at dusk and dawn,

its wide-mouth saucer-like and finely

bristled, a boon for snaring insect swarms.

The nightjar’s been a magnet for infernal

fears—in folklore, it’s bewitched, a spirit

wandering or worse—goatsucker hovering

near herds, spreading poison, stealing

milk from nanny goats…Feathered brown

and white, the nightjar blends with bark—

witchy camouflage that makes it seem all

the more elusive. The nightjar’s eggs are laid

and hatched to synch with a full moon. Stay

grounded—a white flag doesn’t always mean

surrender. One flick of a handkerchief will mimic

the courtly wing flash of a male’s display. Call forth

the nightjar before it vanishes to forage among ferns.