Friday, December 23, 2011

Five Owls

I have heard owls calling lately. One spoke outside my open bedroom window in the middle of the night. One was calling during dinner in the garden. And one was calling across the forest on my recent dusk hike.

The last one reminded me of this lush, hushed poem. This is just how wild and weightless his voice made me feel.

If the Owl Calls Again
by John Haines

at dusk
from the island in the river,
and it's not too cold,

I'll wait for the moon
to rise,
then take wing and glide
to meet him.

We will not speak,
but hooded against the frost
soar above
the alder flats, searching
with tawny eyes.

And then we'll sit
in the shadowy spruce
and pick the bones
of careless mice,

while the long moon drifts
toward Asia
and the river mutters
in its icy bed.

And when the morning climbs
the limbs
we'll part without a sound,

fulfilled, floating
homeward as
the cold world awakens.

Wishing you all a Christmas weekend of wonder and comfort and delight.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Talk to me! I love external validation.