White Owl

I heard a yarn
Spun on a farm
In early morn’s tranquility

Told by a friend
Past tempest’s end
And this is what he said to me:

‘Round four o’clock
The lightning struck
Awakening me from my dream

I leapt from bed
With sleep in head
To watch the clouds burst at their seams

Through veil of rain
My eyes with strain
Made out an owl atop a pine

The silhouette
Of wings outstretched
Was drawn by flashes from behind

Its coat of mail
A ghostly pale
Deflected all precipitate

And stoically poised
Amidst the noise
It challenged all who challenged it

And there it stayed
Though branches frayed
Debating wisdom with the storm

While I, transfixed
With torrent mixed
And thunder blew its mighty horn

Now, days have passed
Since I heard last
Of that rare bird stark in the night

Yet would my eyes
Have recognized
The splendor of that cryptic sight?

Nature pristine
From what I’ve seen
Falls short of visions wrought in art

Though she is vast
And all outlasts
Its art that gives voice to the heart

That thing divine
Which inside shines
And filters through creative cracks

A window to
The things we knew
Revealing that which nature lacks