A Nightjar Nighthawk
On The Return of the Whip-poor-will
Vol. 147, April 8th, 2025 Published a Day Early Online
The Return of the Song
The cloud is low on the mountain again, sponge-painting it green. Everything is green. Or yellow. Or purple. The violets are blooming in the lush grass, with a shade true enough to break your heart. (I can’t tell you why, it just is.)
Down by the creek, the Whip-poor-will is back. His song floated across the hayfield late Friday night, so I paused, and listened. He’s put some flair into it this year, a bold move with an ancient tradition. He’s added an H–a whip-poor-whill now. The night must have been fine for singing, for his colleague, the Chuck will’s widow, returned in greeting from up the hill.
The birds are from the nightjar family, which includes the nighthawk (this publication’s namesake). The female whip-poor-will lays her eggs so they’ll hatch about 10 days before the full moon. As the nestlings’ appetite grows, so does the lunar phase. The parents can hunt all night by the silvery light, bringing home the (moth) bacon for the hungry little ones.
Generations of these birds will continue to haunt spring nights in a most pleasant, melancholy way. Hank Williams sang about him sounding “too blue to fly.”
I’m glad he’s back in concert.
The Elusive Songster
The whip-poor-will sleeps all day like a bump on a log, so he can sing all night. Dig his excellent camouflage.
Song of the Week
“I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” (Hank Williams)
The whip-poor-will sets the mood in this country classic, best served with beer to cry in.
What’s a Nice Girl Like You...
doing on an island like this? They find the (mostly) intact statue of Venus de Milo today, 1820. Don’t be insulted if she doesn’t wave back...(you can’t take me anywhere.)
Also, it’s the 1-year anniversary of showing up on the 6 ‘o clock news. No crimes, only solar eclipse commentary.
Carol’s Appalachian Word of the Week
Festering (getting worse): “Paul is just festering for a fight tonight!”
Quote of the Week
“The whole wood-world is one full peal of praise.”
–Tennyson
Note: this is a lot of of the weeks in a row. Working on that. It reminds me of a favorite joke.
I got an awful thesaurus.
It’s awful.
Write to Us!
The Nighthawk is a new old-fashioned way to connect, published weekly. You’re invited to write back, or just enjoy reading. Let’s have some fun! It’s a social paper! Send stories, etc to: PO Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588 or Joshurban@protonmail.com
Letters from Josh
(A weekly update from Josh Urban’s adventures on the farm and in the city. #228)
Appearing in the Altavista Journal, etc: How to Sportscast in Three Easy Steps
Howdy folks, and welcome back to the show! “I’m aiming to start a restaurant.” “I’d like to weld–or be a journalist.” “I’m serious about my music.” “I’d love to be a sportscaster.”
My eyes lit up. “Ah, want ideas?” Maybe that’s a dumb question. Career Day is supposed to be an advice fair, but hey, the world has enough pundits. The students were gracious. “Yes.” So we talked, brainstormed, and planned the future. “Have you thought about starting a podcast? You can build your own audience that way. Start now!”
The sign on my table said JOSH URBAN/SPEAKER/WRITER/DJ. It should have said MAD SCIENCE GUIDANCE COUNSELOR. I learned from last year. Bring swag. And props. A stack of classic literature lurked by the old typewriter. A young man hunched down over the keys.
“Lean into it, buddy. You gotta kick those things. It’s not a laptop.”
So he did, clattering out an eloquent paragraph on a senior’s point of view. It bowled me over.
“NICE. Have a book, dude.” He got Zinsser’s timeless On Writing Well.
Two girls stopped by. The first admitted to being a writer, the second was sold out by the first. “She does write, but doesn’t tell anyone.” We discussed blogging. They picked Pride and Prejudice and Hamlet from the pile. “An excellent choice, ma’am.”
They wandered off, maybe to talk with the healthcare company, or the fire department. There’s nothing like Career Day.
The Marines had a wiz kid on the pull-up bar. We all watched. “SIX. SEVEN. EIGHT. NINE. TEN.” He dropped, panting. “Good job, buddy.”
The police recruiter at the table next door told me what it’s like to be a cop; how he grew up in a bad part of town, used to be the problem, and now is part of the solution. “I tell the kids I know what it’s like.” His story of redemption is always ready to help, lift up, and pay forward.
A group of musicians and future restaurateurs walked up, trying the typewriter. “Slam them keys, man.” We talked jazz piano and practicing negotiation.
“What advice would you give?” the jazzman asked.
“Well, be careful of advice.” (Then we got into practical details.) Suddenly, I looked at them, extending my arms upwards like a preacher, or a surprised chimpanzee.
“Look at you all. You have such an advantage over me. TIME, and youth and all that good stuff. If you totally botch things up, you can start again. So go try stuff!” They nodded.
There was something so hopeful, so electrifying in talking with these students. They’re about to go build their lives. I guess we all are, at any age. That’s the promise of every sunrise we live. But they reminded me to wipe the dust from my face, and remember the blessing.
To the next generation of workers: welcome aboard. And thanks for the reminder. It crackles in the air. Let’s build something great.
Catch you on the flip side…
–Josh