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The night Silas Broughton died neighbors at his bedside heard a dirge rising from high limbs in the nearby woods, and thought come dawn the whippoorwill's song would end, one life given wing requiem enough—were wrong, for still it called as dusk filled Lost Cove again and Bill Cole answered, caught in his field, mouth open as though to reply, so men gathered, brought with them flintlocks and lanterns, then walked into those woods, searching for death's composer, and returned at first light, their faces lined with sudden furrows as though ten years had drained from their lives in a mere night, and not one would say what was seen or heard, or why each wore a feather pressed to the pulse of his wrist.
Added: 6 Oct 2002 | Last Read: 5 Sep 2026 12:24 AM | Viewed: 4694 times
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Ron Rash
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