Owls Hunting (Poetry)

Well turned one — almost two —
in the morning
and from outside a sound drifts through —
a long-drawn note
from some soft-feathered throat
makes the cold air tremble so.

And further off — high as the Gods
in night’s black theatre
an answer comes — its tone
melancholy as it floats alone
down dark airways
to a waiting ear.

There are breathless gaps between
their eerie conversations —
the participants unseen — two or more
and their language on this clear
moon-absent night is open to
a winged imagination.

Each well-controlled low hoot
sends shivers — a symphony of chills
to those who listen — rapt in fear —
anticipating one swift silent swoop
all twitch to hear
the hunt begin.