This time the owl eludes us
where we stand trying to call him in
with his own voice
which we've captured on tape
to release to the predawn woods.
Press a button. The air flutters,
rushing from out black box
what is hidden from us--
soft bursts of song.
If light mutes him, shadows offer hope,
and we listen so intently into them
the snowy meadow
suddenly seems wider, brighter
with news from beyond its perimeter.
Don't lift, I almost pray,
Day will break soon enough.
Let us hear your faint vibrato and absorb
what is invisible, wild and nearly gone.
Mist thickens the silence, promises
patience, echo, sound not sight.
I will let that fluty tremolo find,
fill me, give voice
to emptiness. I hold my breath to sustain
the long vowel of night.