If the Owl Calls Again

    at dusk

    from the island in the river，

    and it's not too cold，

    I'll wait for the moon

    to rise，

    then take wing and glide

    to meet him.

    We will not speak，

    but hooded against the frost

    soar above

    the alder flats， searching

    with tawny eyes.

    And then we'll sit

    in the shadowy spruce

    and pick the bones

    of careless mice，

    while the long moon drifts

    toward Asia

    and the river mutters

    in its icy bed.

    And when the morning climbs

    the limbs

    we'll part without a sound，

    fulfilled， floating

    homeward as

    the cold world awakens.