If the Owl Calls Again

by John Haines

at dusk from the island in the river,
and it's not too cold,
I'll wait for the moon to rise,
then take wing and glide to meet him.

We will not speak,
but hooded against the frost soar above the alder flats,
searching with tawny eyes.

And then we'll sit in the shadowy spruce
and pick the bones of careless mice,
while the long moon drifts toward Asia
and the river mutters in its icy bed.

And when the morning climbs the limbs we'll part without a sound,
fulfilled, floating homeward as the cold world awakens.