Of a Sudden

As we stood looking through

The glass

Of the sliding patio

Door

Into the night

Sky

There she was

A perfect roundness

Of white light

The Moon

Risen above the distant

Hill

And it seemed

She lay resting from her

Ascent

Against a smooth blanket

Of blackness

And as we stood

Gazing

Into her full-faced

Light

Of a sudden

Out of her stillness

We heard the hoot

A soft mournful

Hoot

From an owl

It had to have

Been

An owl

On a high branch

Of a Sycamore tree

An owl

How can this be

There are no owls

Here

And yet a

Hoot

Only an owl would

Deliver

 

It excited us

Delighted us

And although we looked

Up

Into the darkened

Sycamore

We could not find

The owl

Although again the

Hoot

Again     again

Then      silence

 

For the next two nights

Moon retained her

Fulness

For the next two nights

Owl hooted softly

From the Sycamore

Tree

 

On the third night

Moon had begun her

Waning

On the third night

No hoot from the

Owl

On a high branch

Of the Sycamore

Tree

It was gone

Flown away

Only a silent night

Remained

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