Christianne Stotijn

  /  Poems   /  If the Owl Calls Again
At dusk
from the island in the riverand it’s not too cold,I’ll wait for the moonto rise,then take wing and glideto meet him.We will not speak,but hooded against the frostsoar abovethe alder flats, searchingwith tawny eyes.And then we’ll sitin the shadowy spruce andpick the bonesof careless mice,while the long moon driftstoward Asiaand the river muttersin its icy bed.And when morning climbsthe limbswe’ll part without a sound,fulfilled, floatinghomeward asthe cold world awakens.

John Haines