The big old gray owl, how wise he can be,
Hiding from hunters that will never see.
Sitting in plain sight on a branch of a tree,
Blending with the bark will keep him free.
When night slips in and the darkness takes hold,
You can be sure that slick owl will get very bold.
The depth of his sound reaches beneath every root,
Filling chilled air with that mysterious familiar hoot.
Other then his big round eyes of a bright yellow,
The quick turning of his head, what a smart fellow.
Many claims are made that the owl is very wise,
There can be no doubt for look at that disguise.
Author Eileen Clark 2022
Dark hills against a hollow crocus sky
Scarfed with its crimson pennons, and below
The dome of sunset long, hushed valleys lie
Cradling the twilight, where the lone winds blow
And wake among the harps of leafless trees
Fantastic runes and mournful melodies.
The chilly purple air is threaded through With silver from the rising moon afar, And from a gulf of clear, unfathomed blue In the southwest glimmers a great gold star Above the darkening druid glens of fir Where beckoning boughs and elfin voices stir.
And so I wander through the shadows still, And look and listen with a rapt delight, Pausing again and yet again at will To drink the elusive beauty of the night, Until my soul is filled, as some deep cup, That with divine enchantment is brimmed up.