An Owl

An Owl
Talons sink into rotting bark
As he clasps the branches of the tallest tree.
His yellow eyes sit in a sepia mask of feathers,
Glazed,
Like pools of honey drowning ebony pupils…
A sharpened beak lies straight between them, pointing
Down to the uneasy ground, where creatures
Fester, crawl and squirm.
 

Tawny wings are raised,
And in a second he plunges
Downwards
And shrieks.
The panicked mass of fur scurries
Through the dirt,
And talons pluck from the earth,
Sink into blood-sticky sides.
Back on his perch, he waits like sculpted stone.