This realm of plenty

Owlescence

Every night she comes as her kind
have done so for millennia. The night
needs her. The night wants her.

A crook in the palm, a limb
in the oak, her tapered shape
fits both with caressive perfection.

This is her domain as the stars
concede dominance to what sees
beyond them in such dim provinces.



Gaze that does not falter, scanning
the meadow for anything that moves,
moonless windcaper notwithstanding.

What will surrender to her remains to
be decided, an ill-timed scurry for orts,
one unadvised reconnoiter for shelter.

In this realm of plenty, she will
have the best of it, not all, but
what will stay her starry night.

Joseph Gallo
July 9, 2014