Boobook

as predicted, a winter snap
crept over us as we slept
and we woke to

still sharp air,

to bewildered trees
(their leaves now lying
at their feet)

studying wreaths of
sad cloud
in a pale sky,

to the boobook, immobile
examining the day
with dark eyes and a hooked beak –

dumb, wrapped in its
soft brown feathers –

more suited to silent
night raids on rodents

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