September

September 

by Mary Oliver

I walk through a grove of pines and startle the nighthawk

from the limb where it has been lying, resting or sleeping.

The bird is similar in color to the gray limb, and lies along

not across it, so it is almost invisible.  On its hawk-like wings

it rises into the sky, and vanishes.

The nighthawk doesn't nest there but only stops  a few days

on its long travels.  I know this one must be tired of flight,

and I am sorry to have disturbed it.

The next day, walking in the same woods, I approach with

care.  The bird is again resting on the limb, its eyes shut.  I

back away and do not disturb it.

The following year, almost to the day, I enter the

pinewoods and remember the nighthawk just in time --- in

time to be cautious and silent.  And the bird is there, in the

same tree, on the same limb, in the pinewoods that is so

pretty and restful, apparently, to both of us.