Chordeiles minor

I attended a college in the North Carolina mountains. Looking back, I realize now what a singular experience it was--it was a small school, and we lived within steps of trails that led to mountains and meadows. I don't think I'll ever stop missing that place. In the evenings my roommate and I would sit on our porch and talk, and on lucky nights just before sunset a flock of nighthawks would fly over the dorm. Their wings are long and pointed; they would swoop and glide through the air catching insects in their wide whiskered mouths. I doubt you'd see one unless it was flying. With mottled plumage they blend smoothly into leaves and branches.

As a student in a wildlife management class I was once assigned the job of creating a study skin of a nighthawk. What a strange task--and an important opportunity for me to see such a mysterious creature up close. It was hit by a car--if I could have willed that bird back to life I would have. I was distracted from the preparation work by the texture of its feathers. I remember it had a soft musky smell.

I've only seen nighthawks twice since moving to the D.C. area. I watched nighthawks circling the spot lights at a miniature golf course the first evening I spent with my future husband. And again the other day--our second wedding anniversary, circling a lake steps away from where we were married. The sight of nighthawks always transports me back to that porch, but they've become beautifully linked to my new life as well.