Suburban Sylph of Crying Owls

 

The cry which stripped the street away,

Which left the ancient marsh to rise,

And claimed the gardens for the pine,

Lets loose the wolves and bears of old.

 

A scream the soul of night itself,

Which stretched the forest, coast to coast.

Inhuman land beneath the moon,

Unused to axe, to fear, to smoke.

 

And then up close: the clack of beak.

A yard or so: the scratching claws.

A foot and less: near silent whisps,

Of wings so soft they make no breath.

 

And last I hear the heart and pulse,

And feel nocturnal howlings rise.