The Great Escape

May is a month of moon watcher mornings
Where patio chairs reluctantly dew
In the sacred air of screech owl scornings,
Which ask..."Where the deuce is my witches brew?"

Of course I cannot translate owl screech.
It was only an educated guess.

But if I could master avian speech
I'd listen for the secrets they might confess,
For owls, with their night vision goggles,
Have likely witnessed the sort of dark scenes
That would give day brains disturbing boggles
Like those provided by unsupervised teens...
Or...doomed mice turned out by tractor ploughs...
Trapped, by moonbeams through maple boughs!