Photo by Dominik VO on Unsplash

Just now, while I’m sitting here
in this only now becoming familiar place,
I wish to hear that owl who called from the woods.
The one who sent his long voice
over wild lilies in the dark still water,
over waving goldenrod almost deeply glowing
among moving shadows under the crescent moon.

But there is an owl somewhere here,
somewhere near, whose voice is different,
who calls from a thicket of trees somewhere
among the houses of town.
I listen with care to this one, while wishing for the other.

August 2005