May 21, 1984–Monday night–8:50 p.m.
The spring rain is barely over. Trees drip with water. Lightning flashes across the night sky and thunder sounds in the distance. A whippoorwill calls — clear, sweet chords that remind me of my childhood. Thank you, Lord, for whippoorwills. May all my children have a whippoorwill to listen to, sometime, during their lifetime.
© Freeda Baker Nichols