Tyto & Stryx
I grew up on farms, I knew my barns,
And knew the owls inside.
As paragons of myths and yarns,
They sure did love to hide.
But even with their silent wings, I’d sight
Their calling card,
And know they still clocked-in each night
From pellets round the yard.
The barn owls are the perfect owls,
In look and lore and size.
With heart-shaped masks and earless cowls,
And wisdom in their eyes.
Until, that is, they won’t stay mute,
But let loose with their speech –
And utter not a single hoot,
But a disappointing screech.
I heard the twits and twooing too,
From tawnies in the trees,
But only from a distance, flute and mew,
In two-part harmonies.
Yet round the barns, I only hear the shriek,
Not the trill of charm –
The wrong voice for the owl I seek,
Of the poet of the farm.
Owls, of course, have their own concern,
And do not care for me.
And I should take their lead to learn
To let their natures be.
So when the golden hour is full of cries
I now can grin
As the night-shift owls in the barn arise
And start reporting-in.
Rhyming Couplets 