The mole catacombed under dripping roots, <br />gnawing grubs like clustered shrimp, pulpy white <br />dangling in gloom. In the oak, patient hoots <br /> <br />practiced the dark; tiny hands tunneled and scooped <br />processions of mounds: a breach of lunar light <br />the owl distinguished from his drift and swooped, <br /> <br />spread grasping hooks, honed keen as his sight, <br />and yanked the mole's squeal from under a dune, <br />ascending with his prey in silhouetted flight <br /> <br />up the talcum motes of a taloned moon.<br /><br />William F Dougherty<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/owl-light/
