The Owl

Temperate sympathies
That do not cross
On mild  
well wishing winds
 
My mind ...
Thoughts drape
Like a sky  
Crossed by indifference  
Slow cumulonimbus drifting  
 
Obscure references  
That part
You and me
 
You see...
What matters to me now
Is not what mattered to me then  
 
Like the owl
Who shattered his beak
Trying
Then with slow turning of his head...
Spies his meal
And cannot eat
 
To seek
Broken and in need  
To find what might nourish you
Its appeal rolling small and helpless  
In the grass
Or underneath layers
Of dead wood and compost
 
Heaped over a trembling effort  
To hide and stay lost  
From piercing capture
 
To watch that vulnerable discomfort
Out of the gaze  
Of an eye ready with capable force
And wicked ability to take it...
And,
Transform loss through its digestion
Into
Energy
 
To just look  
Chest heaving with power  
Over it?  
 
To sit on wooden ledge  
With any comfort?
 
Surely I would turn my stare  
round towards some other  
ease for my yearnings  
A penchant for what stirs me
set softly to the side
 
So I am implying  
Your sympathies are false
To your nature
And my security
 
Here in this underbrush
And shaky home