Clocks belled twelve. Main street showed otherwise <br />Than its suburb of woods : nimbus—- <br />Lit, but unpeopled, held its windows <br />Of wedding pastries, <br /> <br />Diamond rings, potted roses, fox-skins <br />Ruddy on the wax mannequins <br />In a glassed tableau of affluence. <br />From deep-sunk basements <br /> <br />What moved the pale, raptorial owl <br />Then, to squall above the level <br />Of streetlights and wires, its wall to wall <br />Wingspread in control <br /> <br />Of the ferrying currents, belly <br />Dense-feathered, fearfully soft to <br />Look upon? Rats' teeth gut the city <br />Shaken by owl cry.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/owl-15/
