The stars are winking round my cabin site
as dusk descends I hear the hooting owl
amid the trees there blinks a full moon night
which leaves a silver light upon his scowl.
This bird commands a view from high his perch.
He slowly bends his head and lowers lid;
his talons grip o’er branch of stately birch
and misses nothing with his wise, old head.
Oh, wondrous bird; oh, creature of mystique!
We have, for centuries, defined you so
and your sardonic vigilance still keeps
yet bows to our designing depths below.
We hear in your slow-muffled, steady hoot;
delight in some strange omen of pursuit.