Listening to the Land
By John Herlihy

Listening to the land,
The winter night is all but still.
The horned owl makes no noise;
It takes off majestically at will,
Night seeing with wings outstretched,
Alert to night’s silence and fully poised.
It hears something I cannot hear;
It sees something I cannot see.
With night vision not privy to me.
Enough to see the wise owl,
Out and about on the prowl.
It flies off as though without a care,
With no interest its victim to spare.
The owl dropped down to the snowy pasture,
A frantic scream broke the silence of the night.
I continue to listen but see nothing in sight.

The owl then rose again, rising back to the trees.
Now a full grown rabbit going limp in its talons,
Deadened by fear from such medieval dragons.
The sounds of the winter night come and go;
The silence awaits a sound its gift to bestow.
The thick snow descends in peaceful waves;
The vision alone has the power to save.
The view to the horizon like no other;
Vast snow blended into vast cloud cover.
The owl returned to its home in the tree.
Do I see the feathery horns of another like thee,
Peeking slyly out from the tree’s cavity?
In the quiet grid of land, I feel a breeze,
And another thing I feel: reverential fear.
The thing that lays upon and covers all things;
A silent truth across the land I listen to and hear,