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Whip-Poor-Wills…. By Shorty | December 30th, 2007

When I was younger I lived in Dayton, Ohio. Recently, for some reason Ohio has come up in a lot of conversations, especially the subject of the Whip-poor-will birds that seem to only habitate that area of the US. I came across these native american poems about them and thought that it was neat since I had never seen anything about them before in print!

 The Chant of Invitation to the Whip-Poor-Will Totem

Thus sings the Whip-poor-will,

Follow me, follow me!

Thus speaks the Chief to him,

Yes, I will follow you!

Lo! the night darkening

Stalks through the shadow-land;

No light to beckon-us

Murmurs the waterfall,

Thus sings the river-voice!

Someone is nearing us,

Creeping upon us close,

Two fires of eyes are close

Lighting the forest path-

Hear how his breath blows by!

Fol-low me, fol-low me,-

So sings the Whip-poor-will!

Yes, I am following-

Thus answers the Chief answers him.

Hark the trees whispering

Bend their old bodies low,

Not the strong North Wind’s hand

Nay, but One great and swift

Parts them with whistling breath!

Hark! How the thickets snap!

Fearless the footfalls pass

Pushing the trees apart!

Great horns dividing them.

How I go shivering!

No snow is falling now,

Where hides the sun his fire?

Something swift-footed comes

Roaring and warning me!

Eyes of the night it blinds,

Falling like heavy mist!

Now it creeps close to me,

Warning and beckoning

Where the black forest looms.

How the wind whistles now!

No one dares race with it.

Great trees bend low to it,

Rivers fight back to it,

Roaring and splashing it!

Hear how its strong wings beat

Deep in the gusty sky!

High through the night it flies

Whistling and screaming, still

Hunting the prey that runs!

The Eagle

Deep the dew-water falls

No one comes close to me!

Where are you, Whip-poor-will?

Why am I waiting now

Calling you, calling you?

Screaming the night away

With his great feathers spread

Catching the darkness up

I hear the Eagle-bird

Pulling the blanket back

From the east, sleeping still.

How swift he flies, bearing the sun to the morning;

See how he perches there on the trail of the east-sky.

Whip-poor-will, Whip-poor-will,

No more I follow thee!

When night springs up again

Will you cry, “Follow me?”

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