Owl

In this place, raddled with vermin, small

nocturnal feeders, beady-eyed things with tails,

I am king of the night.

As dusk thickens I glide, wings spread,

claws curled, neck feathers flattened

along the wind’s tree-top path.

I make less rustle than leaves,

am less visible at this height.

They may not notice me at all.

Owl eyes can see the field’s edge and

the deep wood world. I can see dinner on four tiny legs.

I am slow and smooth; then swift and sure.

The thrill of the downward swoop,

claws extending, feathers swept back,

eyes fixed, is what I was born for.

I am king of the night.