Only an Owl
by Vaughn Neeld

The night is silent
except for the shir of an owl's
spread wings as it glides ghost-like
over the snow-covered prairie.

Muted hoots rise through frozen air
like the smoke rings that rise
from the pursed lips of the lonely watcher
quiet behind the windows' damask drapes
and the tapestry of frost glazing the
corners of each pane.

One must have a mind of winter.
They are silent, hushed–
the hunter is only an owl,
the watcher only a man.
Together they are the universe.



 

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