Barred Owl

Abstract

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 fi nd him if we looked, but if we hoot correctly sometimes he’ll come, soundless, tree to tree like somebody shuffl ing along in his slippers, eyes burning, peevish for being disturbed, his claws curled back and hidden in his sleeves.