Hoot Owl Cries

A great-horned owl not yet to bed,
Although the sun’s over the ridge,
Starts a seried, sequential set

Of piercing screeches, nothing like
The ominously sonorous
But soothing baritone hoo-ing

It cooed when hunting by the moon.
Personality is context.
Swift, downy-winged, taloned crooners

Who consume lives whole in the dark
Become high-pitched and crotchety
When they’re tired and death needs its rest.