The Harping Owl

Credits: Pixabay

I met an owl

Perched, mute, afoul.

Her stare, my going further, no,

Plume combed and chic, though

cold the night;

Her eyes flamed, alight

Talons clung on dear wood

Startled was her mood.

I watched the owl,

Flat-faced, homely, prowl

Swooped down the bore,

of its tree store;

Gorged out a mole’s heart, too;

Blood-bathed the trunks, though twice

as big as her, yielded to

The fatal duel, with feeble paw fights.

The mirror says, ‘Behold, a flake!’

Sifting through scripts in the receding

moonlight. Framed with geek eyeglasses, a’ fake,

dreaming.

Where, an owl flapped at his window,

Like conjured up witches from limbo.

Demurely, I looked at the owl

From the swarthiness of her psyche, saw a soul

inside

Fiery that it frightened; deep, wise, wide,

Yearning to hoot the night away

Nature bid a tame messenger stay

Harping clear intuitive words

woven into silent chords

‘You must be one of us, easy, make no fuss.’

Till it dawned on us.