at dusk <br />from the island in the river, <br />and it's not too cold, <br /> <br />I'll wait for the moon <br />to rise, <br />then take wing and glide <br />to meet him. <br /> <br />We will not speak, <br />but hooded against the frost <br />soar above <br />the alder flats, searching <br />with tawny eyes. <br /> <br />And then we'll sit <br />in the shadowy spruce <br />and pick the bones <br />of careless mice, <br /> <br />while the long moon drifts <br />toward Asia <br />and the river mutters <br />in its icy bed. <br /> <br />And when the morning climbs <br />the limbs <br />we'll part without a sound, <br /> <br />fulfilled, floating <br />homeward as <br />the cold world awakens.<br /><br />John Haines<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/if-the-owl-calls-again/
