Waiting for the moon.

"If the Owl Calls Again", John Haines. 

At dusk

from the island in the river,

and it's not too cold, 

I'll wait for the moon 

to rise, 

then take wings 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,


fullfilled, floating
homeward as 
the cold world awakens.