By Ann Michener Winter
WHO is that in the dead of night
calling from the giant oak tree
calling his mate in a strong loud voice
she answers in soft hoots of three
scanning my eyes through the thick oak branches
trying to spot the pair
backlit with moonlight the limbs appear
but I don’t spy the owls anywhere
I’d love to touch their feathers so soft
gaze into a golden eye
but I’ll stay in bed drift off to sleep
to their wonderful lullaby
maybe it's better they can’t be seen
and remain a mystical bird
for in my dreams they are radiant gods
WHOse call is a joy to be heard
Ann Michener Winter is a CA native and has been writing poetry, prose and creative non-fiction since age 11. She enjoys reading, gardening, travel and family and friends. Also by this poet: "What I Forgot to Remember"