When the sky is right, the moon and stars
Shine through the window on my son’s bed,
Lighting his way to sleep. But last night
He called to me: An owl, he said,
Was singing from the oak tree in our yard.
An owl, I wondered, in this city where
All species are more or less endangered?
“Go to sleep. You must have heard a cat.”
“But look!” he cried. “There is the bird!”
So I got up to sit with him in the dark.
On a high branch backlit by the moon
The pointed ears, the round head of the owl
Cut from the sky a perfect silhouette
Which chilled me even though it thrilled my son.
I sat with him in the darkness a long time
Charmed by his pure joy in the owl’s song,
Known for centuries as an omen of doom.
What was it doing outside my child’s room?
Singing, clearly, for a captive audience,
I in my fear, my son in glad innocence.
I yawned. The boy nodded. I tucked him in
And went to my corner of darkness, comforted
The patient owl that sang my son to sleep
Was not the owl I dread, not mine, but his,
The kind prophet of a strange new wilderness.
—Daniel Mark Epstein