Waiting For Owls
As autumn wanes and winter falls,
I always wait for owls' calls
They must not live near me, close by,
so seldom do I hear their cry,
but every winter, once or twice,
they come to my woodlot for mice.
And so I know, on some cold night,
when milky moon spills liquid light,
a muffled wail, a haunting chide
will part the darkness, here, inside.
And I will turn, lie very still
and listen to the hooting— shrill,
and then, again, musky and loud,
enfolded in a billowed cloud.
With fog it fades, as great wings beat
through gauzy gloom, where wild things meet,
and trees and owls and creatures blend
in ancient turns that never end.
As echoed voices wend away,
while morning turns the black to gray,
beyond my lot, their hazy howls
float back to where I wait for owls.
*this poem was featured in my regional newspaper in Feb. 2020
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