This poem was written from the perspective of an Owl. Light and sound seem to stick out most at night – as if they as if they were soloing on an instrument. Sound is isolated and it almost echoes. Light is muted-grey but allows you enough shine to see. I hope you enjoy my poem!
Howl & Hoot
Night feels stuck, paused but alert,
soundless. Any step, a hail force;
any motion, stabbing ice.
Full moon is muffled bright, clear and precise,
on this pillared grove, a flood-lit
columned stage set for the actors:
Lupine and woodfern
caught in glaucous tint
as daylight sleeps at the base
of every other tree.
Empurpled and viridescent
figments for the dawn.
I see the death, mortality adorned,
and to see it takes patience,
stilt-stiff posture, and a back turned east
away from the rise, veiled from the twelve
hours that blind me.
Turn my neck, hear it coming,
the rain. Knives crashing, limbs smacking
and the lack of blood.
Silence is when I become the storm,
wing-thrashing wind, midnight Dionysian:
too faded to eat, too little sleep.