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Jim Fowler

The Night Country

A night-bird calls from beyond the cornfield and I crawl into my childhood bed. The moon casts the shadow of the gate-post onto the wall. The night-bird swells and calls and calls. I pull the covers over my head. Beneath my pillow, a transistor radio brings me the ballgame.

I throw back the blanket, flip over the pillow, lay my head upon its coolness. In the distance a train closes to a crossing. The shadow of the birch crawls across the floor. I pull the covers up. Turn my back. The train pulls away.

the hiss
of an off-air station
whip-po'-will