I walked at dawn through foggy trees,
humming with day’s first feeble songs
as hidden birds by twos and threes
awoke in chorus. Dawn belongs
to any creature, flesh or fowl,
that bears a tune—but not the owl.
High up, calm as a hen in coop,
a barred owl perched. As the fog brightened,
birds that had feared his midnight swoop
now flitted freely, sang unfrightened,
showing him no respect by day.
I called —”Owl, is it wise to stay?”
He only blinked a sleepy eye.
And then as if my human talk
was answered with a bird’s reply,
a sudden, fierce, red-shouldered hawk
flashed by and knocked him off his limb.
The indignity was grave for him—
flapping sideways, he struck the grass
and hopped befuddled as a frog
as the hawk made a warning pass.
Dark owl eyes glared around in fog,
then with a rumpled I-Don’t-Care
he lifted soundlessly in air
and quickly disappeared from view.
Day-hunting is the hawk’s by right,
yet after an owl-sleep I knew
he’d quake the woods with calls tonight,
though proof the wisest creatures can
outstay their going, bird or man.
