Fats here.
For today’s (bird) Poetry Friday, I’m sharing a poem by John Haines, which I discovered through poets.org. This is for anyone who loves birds—particularly, owls. Enjoy!
Poetry Friday round-up is hosted by
Christy at Wondering and Wandering!
If the Owl Calls Again
at dusk from the island in the river, and it’s not too cold, I’ll 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 we’ll 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 we’ll part without a sound, fulfilled, floating homeward as the cold world awakens.
Gathering Books 
Beautiful! Thank-you for sharing both pic and poem.
LikeLike
Fascinating POV in this poem.
LikeLike
Love this idea, Fats, the mystery of “who” is speaking, “who” will go out into the night to pick those bones with the owl. I have been on a night prowl to see an owl, sat with my husband’s aunt in a wood one night waiting, and there it came, swooping down, very close I guess to check us out, then away onto its hunt. You’ve brought back that night for me with your beautiful story poem.
LikeLike
Beautiful!
LikeLike
Oh, this is just beautiful. I love “We will not speak, but hooded against the frost soar above the alder flats, searching with tawny eyes.” and especially “when the morning climbs the limbs.” Such gorgeous language and imagery…and mystery!
LikeLike
That is a beautiful poem. Thanks for sharing it.
LikeLike