After Prayers

After prayers, and all things evening,

I went outside to take the

screech owls in.

One perched within the

neighbor’s highest tree; another flew

at my first view—testing,

say, which set

of eyes held spell or sway,

as each of us had nuanced night-time

sense of sight. I bid that owl

be free, then

spied a steadfast sibling,

perched upon the rightmost cross of

a little chapel I had built.

It lorded there,

taking in meanderings

of all the creatures on the ground. It judged

me not, or rather say

it judged me

as I would: a wanton

pacer towards its perch, pretender to its

throne. I let up, wished

a fancy flight

would wisk the owl to

light upon my shoulder, tell secrets in

whatever code could be

discerned, from

screech to silent stance,

as slowly both of us moved in. We eyed

each other with such thoughts

and as on cue

we called each others’ bluff.

I shifted to the right, it lumbered left

from Hamlet’s cross—for I

had made one

spire each from Wittenburg

for Luther and the Dane; the owl took

Luther’s stand and looked

with stony glance

at what the academic world

advanced: me, for one, and shiftless droves

of strangers seeking a redoubt.

And so I hoped

this presence in our own back

yard would tolerate trespass. I watched

my step, my gaze still high, and

smiled that owls

would punctuate the night.