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.’ ...
