Sycamores
The sycamores at sunset,
orange in their reflection,
torched with an incandescence glow.
(thoughtful trees,
pale white bark
taking on the sepia hue,
winter souls
of their spring greening,
patient of January,
April a hope away)
Listen to the earth
turn toward night
and soon,
a parliament of owls
convening in the moonlight.
as wavering dock lights spill
across dark waters,
small fishing boats bob in the trembling wake,
nodding to the whispering owls
in the deep blue dark of the moon
curved
just so
hint of her smile
new crescent moon
***
New moon and Venus together in the winter sky. Blue so deep there is no word for the color. The sound of owls across the cove
warm humid air –
moving the white curtains –
evening dance
***
sound of scurrying in the grasses-
small brown rabbits leap in the field –
the yip of a fox
***
night sounds –
low hum of the refrigerator,
trilling song of frogs,
the wings of owls
dark evening path-
an unseen companion-
owl calls
***
quiet winters night-
called to order-
a parliament of owls
Each morning for the last few weeks, in the early hours before sunrise, I have heard faint owl calls. We have many native owls, but here at the house, they are rarely heard. The temperatures have cooled and the sound carries so, that it is hard to know how far away they are.
When we lived in the Arkansas Ozarks, we had an old 1880 farmhouse and seven acres. The acreage was in meadow and deciduous stands of native trees. A perfect spot for owls of all species and they would hoot chorus after chorus of owl song for us every night.
In my book, The Course of Our Seasons, the poem Sycamores ends with the lines:
And soon, a parliament of owls
Convene in the moonlight.
I miss that sound and welcome the faint calls I hear early in the morning before the dawn.
thecourseofourseasons 