Owl on the evening draft,
overhead in stalking attire,
whose feathers silently fall
adrift to ground on this occasion;
token autumnal red
leaves a smoking shotgun barrel.
Extends his talons to count
on each partly opened claw
the scamper of fear in mice;
one, two, three seconds,
they clutch at wood and wait
within, inside a gnarled tree spine.
Keep in the shadows little ones,
under cover of a bark remain silent,
for the Barn Owl is white death,
but ever so fatally wounded
to the run of life over flight paths.
Early hours strip the hunter bare,
four, five, six seconds;
the stealth of winter’s approach.
