If the Owl Calls Again at dusk from the island in the river, and its not too cold, Ill 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 well 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 well part without a sound, fulfilled, floating homeward as the cold world awakens. --- by John Haines (1924-2011).
Posted on: Tue, 07 Oct 2014 04:32:13 +0000
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