Great Horned Owl
       

It is almost time. Where the owl sits, a scrawled moon
glorifies his back. The horizon has become trees

in a line, the lines inside a din of winter.
He assumes the yellow-eyed stare

of the ravenous. His stuttering call drops
from snags and ledges. Now, the owl's cloak of gray

vaults the road. We can hardly breathe. Such bracing.
We know what it is to pursue prey, to be pursued,

to offer others our softest feathers.
The bird rides the clean dry cold

to another movement, another seize in the ghostly night.
At the dinner table, we listen

to the ripping. The grip is fierce. Finished,
the owl rests—sovereign, and we do not want to see.

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Copyright © 2020 Lauren Camp All rights reserved
from Took House
Tupelo Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission