Hooting of night-owls
With darkness descending on earth
After the Sun sinks
In the deluge of West Skies;
Owls and their nocturnal cousins in wings
Open their eyes wearing night vision lenses
That remain shut in daylight.
At night they Spread their wings
To hover across the Skies;
And engage in hunting spree
To contain their hunger.
With belly filled in all culinary choice
They choose tree-branches to perch;
And heave hiccup of complacence
With hooting in different sound modulation.
A lofty leafy tree standing
Close to my windows;
Offer an ideal berth for an owl
To roost and hoot all night long.
As darkness thickens
With chirps of crickets in nearby bushes;
Whooping of a lone owl inviting her mate
Sounds loud and louder.
At the dead of night in myriad silence
A he-owl responds to call of a she-owl
And joins a night long show
Staging a symphony of hooting & whooping.
Whooping rendition of a couple of a owls
Penetrate the comfort of cocoon;
That holds me coiled inside in wintry night
With eerie feeling in loud silence.
Hooting at time sounds like screeching & hissing
And at time like shriek of ghosts & witches;
That takes me longer back to my childhood days
When whooping of owls would be viewed
As sounds of omen casting spell in darkness.
After a couple of nights whooping
Near my windows overlapping their berth;
Out of their owlish whim
They flew away for seeking a new home.
Every night I long for their call
At the dead of night;
From within the warmth of a thick quilt
When cold-waves sweeps over the place
With thick blanket of wintry mists.
Alas! Hooting and whooping apparently gone
With owls flew away
From the tree of my proximity;
Leaving me with hearing the call only
In the sixth sense of my mind
In long enduring mid-January chilly night.
The poet is a former civil servant.