The Mast-Head: Singular Singing

A dark shape flitted past as I headed toward the house after parking my car in the driveway Tuesday night. In the near distance, a whippoorwill was calling, and I assumed the stocky black bird that moved across my vision from left to right was one of them. 

One of the pleasures of living where I do, surrounded by swamp on three sides in Amagansett, is that the underbrush is filled with life. The insects on which whippoorwills feed thrive here, drawing in other birds whose voices are the soundscape from dusk to dawn.

I have written before, and recently, about how much I enjoy hearing the voices of birds, even when I cannot identify them. The whippoorwill makes itself known. It is one of those species that declares its name or seeks a mate or defends its territory with nearly every breath, and seemingly for hours on end. 

Whippoorwills display, at least to me, a pleasing stubbornness. From their calling, it appears that they stake out a perch and hold that spot, declaring their possession to all that might listen. Some years back, one decided that my garbage enclosure, a roughly built low shed, was a proper spot to claim. It was close enough to an open window so that from my bed I could hear what I took to be its buzzing breath between the echoing calls.

With the household unable to get to sleep on Tuesday, I went out with a flashlight to have a look. Two large copper eyes reflected back at me as I waved the beam in the whippoorwill’s direction. It flew off and was silent for a time, but soon returned. I conceded defeat, and did not bother it again.

This week, there seem to be three or four in the neighborhood. They begin their repetitive conversations as night falls. I slip outside, away from the blare of a child’s TV, to listen, having no idea whatsoever what they are really talking about.