The Barn Owl
In late summer
I feel the chill again
the first marauding
from the high plateau
I can sense the teeth in everything
and claws under rock and ti-tree
biting down
in the dry sand of the creekbed
I find the skeleton of a barn owl
and snap off its skull
with a twist of my thumb and forefinger
I string it
with a length of fishing-line
and for days
I wear it around my neck
dreaming at night
of the crack of lizard-bones
the death-cries of small marsupials
the hard beak
as I work
knocking against my chest
the great, absent eyes
as I sleep
watching from eucalpyts
or waiting in dark rafters.
poem by David Brooks
Added by Poetry Lover
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