Owl
An owl heard, but not seen; our unwild doves Told us of him by never coming back. It was an owl, we said, or else a hawk, When, absent in the morning, at noon too, Absent by evening, dead now for certain, One of our birds, never again appearing, bespoke the presence of a predator. At dusk, over the river, an owrs cry; The beeches, cloaks of blackness; it was him.
One day last week, caught up with sunlight, the Many birds, all tribes, blackbird in the van, Tit, sparrow, chaffinch, collared dove, robin, Scolding commotion, even the wren made one, Diving high up, fluttering among foliage There, just below the beech-tree's topmost bough, Drew us; what was the matter? A shadow Shadowed in hundred shadows, aloft there Lodged, a focus of united fury.
Immobile, brown, and huge, not one to bat An eyelid, the brown owl; he did not have to.
David Wright
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