This owl sits in his own
Gleaming mahogany peace,
Swaying without movement,
Thrusting his talons
Deep into his dais.

Perched upon the mantelpiece
He views the living room,
Gazing around with the old wisdom,
The polished menace of the totem
The psychic power of the moon.

He swivels saucer eyes,
Takes the occasion
To preen his sculpted plumes
Waiting for night.

Then takes to muffled flight,
Swooping around the house,
Stooping upon the mice
Delivering death