IF THE OWL CALLS AGAIN, by John Haines

(Dusk as seen from Penelope's window in Portland, Oregon)



I've been rummaging through the boxes of old class hand-outs, letters, drafts, and lord knows all sorts of other stuff I've saved over the years. It's depressing how much clutter we writers accumulate, most of which we will never really use but which we keep thinking we might. If I could live several lifetimes I might get around to taking this quote or that article or this rough draft and making something of it. But I know I won't. Still, it's hard to let go of some things. Like this poem I found by John Haines, one I used a long time ago in a class. It spoke to the way I've been feeling lately in the midst of this winter weather, watching the birds outside, wondering how the animals get through the long winter nights.

IF THE OWL CALLS AGAIN

at dusk


from the island in the river,


and it's not too cold,





I'll wait for the moon


to rise,


then take wing and glide


to meet him.





We will not speak,


but hooded against the frost


soar above


the alder flats, searching


with tawny eyes.





And then we'll sit


in the shadowy spruce and


pick the bones


of careless mice,





while the long moon drifts


toward Asia


and the river mutters


in its icy bed.





And when morning climbs


the limbs


we'll part without a sound,


fulfilled, floating


homeward as


the cold world awakens.

(John Haines)