Owls’ hooting in memory
Ever since the night-owl-couple
Bunked off the branch of a tree
Next to windows of my room
In the last receding winter
Their hooting melted in the mist of nature.
Over a year I waited for their hooting
Hoping they would appear any night with melody
That I savoured nightlong in last wintry nights
Coiling me under the comfort of a heavy quilt.
Every night I lend my ears
In the silence of running wintry night
To the pleasure of hearing owl's hooting
And hear only screeching sound of
Other nocturnal avian in the thick of night
Except to hooting of owls of my longing.
I imagine, the owl-couple that I knew a year back
Have gone to distant greenwood
And holidaying in pomp and pleasure
In the rhythm of waltzing sway of tree branches.
With their night vision gift of nature's goggles
They seem to be busy now preying on small reptiles & insects
To gobble them with their culinary delight
With releasing barb of satisfaction
Like Discovery's Bear Grylls
Without gushing hooting from their mouth
That I long for hearing from them.
With denuding the tree next to my windows
By a topiarianartist in the recent past
That I watched with deep agony
Owl's perching ground is apparently gone
Leaving no chance for me
To listen to charm of whooping in the tree branch.
Without losing hope once for all
I cherish to hear the hooting even in dream
While they are in cross-country flight
At the dead of night
In the fly past spree overlapping my windows.
Even if the owls do not come back any more
With their symphony of night long whooping
Their wintry night rendition
Will remain abuzz in my fading memory for long.
The poet is a former Civil Servant