My Daddy whittled whistles
from the willow tree—
while we waited for the water
to come licking hungrily.

 He whistled when he whittled,
while the water trickled through—
And finally filled the ditch enough
to set the siphon tubes. 

Dad could set them single-handed,
with his thumb stuck up,
wooing water out the siphon
with a “gloob—glehb—glupp”

 Sometimes the sun sent messages
in coded smiles and winks—
glinting off th’ aluminum
of tubes and dams and things…

 And Dad would whittle whistles
out of nothing but the breeze—
His lips, a kind of pocket knife
that carved with practiced ease 

While we worked, he whistled birdsongs
like the meadowlarks' and robins'—
and he warbled with the best of them, 
whistling as we both went sloggin'

But when I went to whistle,
I only blew wet air—
I went to wet my whistle,
But the whistle wasn’t there…

I would blow and blow wet whispers,
while my dad smiled knowingly...
Then my dad would whittle a whistle
from a willow just for me.