Dusk, and the streetlamps snap

in blue accord across the park. From my bench

by the owl pen I watch the lovers leave,

the last of the families leave,

packing their good opinions home.

Moles scratch out of their burrows

and crickets chirr under the trees. The owl

listens for sport the moon orders, clucks

eagerly, spreading her wings as though

no cage could secure the park from her habits.

And when she whoops from her gallery

roost or heckles the rails of her keep, she is

night's advocate, needy and grieved

for what she sees and I still half believe

of the darkness, teasing life.

As I quit her level stare, I think

of home and the troubles there that favor dull

and comforting dreams, and I want to wake

tonight to the sough of her tremolo,

the salvo of her wingbeats.