Thursday, October 29, 2020

The owl

 



The owl called through the night,

Whoo, Whoo, Whoo, as if it sought

itself, or its mate, or an echo of being

in the darkness, driving through

slow rain and dribbling hours

when nothing more could be

said, than Whoo, Whoo, in

ancient expectation of a cry

to answer his deep yearning,

which was an echo of mine.