Midnight Owls

They hoot in the vale: ha-HOO, ha-HOO!
What prey are they tracking
Behind the cliff faces
Of human dwellings,
Beyond the streetlights
And down the hill
By the sluggish rill,
Across the mowed meadows
Of the golfers' estate?
What fugitives do keen eyes espy
Under the tenuous shades of night
As squeakers bolt from root to rock,
Stirring seed and twig oh-so minimally?
These hunter-watchers comfort me;
Though on high, unapproachable, and unseen,
They pipe-organ cry, and like steeple bells
Define a space at a time of day.
And when in lurid demi-dreams
I thrash and flail,
Those wilting tones dispel the fog
And guide me back to smooth repose
Amid the rustle of fallen leaves.