Old Eight Hoots

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Old Eight Hoots

Winter has touched us
with this change of clocks
and darkness clutches now,
an hour or so too soon.

Old eight hoots watches:‑
he calls; I cough;
but he will not swoop.

He sits tight‑perched, out of sight;
chills me with his ghostly chorus,
hoo‑hooing me home.

Bright stars crackle the sky.
Frost crisps fallen leaves.
A mist weaves webs scarce‑seen.

And all around,
as cold ground creaks
its wordless tongue‑leafed language,
night‑shapes abound.

6 thoughts on “Old Eight Hoots

    • Thank you so much. It is an older poem, Embla, written wile walking round the block, early fall, and listening to the owl(s) calling as I walked the dog. I tried to imitate their calls (the cough). I could hear them but never see them. Thank you for visiting.

      Liked by 1 person

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