POEM

Screech Owl

The screech owl sits, adorable, up in
The open oak, alone and looking out
Upon its prairie that it had to win —
It rules its roost; it sits there with no doubt.

Around the oak are little balls of fur
With girter bones and stomach acid spackle —
The undigested all that’s left of her,
The mother mouse. The owl emits its cackle