Barred Owl

He takes whichever seat is available

at the back of the dawn and settles in,

pulling his old gray overcoat around him,

and now and then throughout the morning

he hoots, but softly, like a man calling out

from a dream. None of us could find him

if we looked, but if we hoot correctly

sometimes he’ll come, soundless, tree to tree

like somebody shuffling along in his slippers,

eyes burning, peevish for being disturbed,

his claws curled back and hidden in his sleeves.