A Worry In the Treetops
A mottled feather glides,
then pirouettes to the forest floor.
Above me a deeply depressed owl
plucks at its plumage.
Birds of prey are too intelligent
their eyes swivel on lit-up neurons.
Sometimes it all gets too much,
what with the constant hunting,
surviving, keeping warm enough
to kill and avoid being killed,
raising ungrateful owlets.
I pick up the lovely feather
stick it in the hatband of my fedora
walk on whistling light-heartedly.
The owl watches me strolling away
with a very peeved owlish glare.
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