Steal.
The sky wanders in purple
and an Owl floats in the currents of darkness.
Oatmeal mice are dawdling
signatures in flaky gray.
Voles are trying hopscotch in shredded blacks, in dapples,
in concealing shade, and
quicksilver moonlight is sifting
like a powder through the bracken.
The Owl is curled in shadow,
above the floodlit ochre of a village church,
it is flowing into frozen blue.
The sky is shimmering where the air is all distances.
The Owl gathering silence from the kindling nest
in the star quiet night,
waving symmetry where the child moon,
eyewhite,
is swung by two hands
like a hammer.
Each star in the black
an occasional spark,
steadily frosted,
dwindling,
crushed silver,
a slow blur of waiting, quiet, faraway light.
The Owl like a ghost in a pale dream
steals.