Owlet Nightjar
By Allis Hamilton
Published 21 March 2025
He watches. Mostly he is still.
Only his eyes shift.
His steadiness is astonishing.
Sometimes he watches the sky,
watches a raven retreat overhead
before he slips from view.
This poem was meant to be
about a butterfly that hatched
from the paper chrysalis in my room.
How I gathered up the wet winged-one
to place her outside, gently,
on the vibrant magenta geranium.
But this nightjar, who sprinkles
my many nights with song, has moved
into my garden and just keeps staring.
I watch the butterfly. I am watched
by the owlet. Together we are knitted
into this quiet invisible air.