If the owl calls again

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.

by John Haines

Owl from Copyright Free Images