As we stood looking through
The glass
Of the sliding patio
Door
Into the night
Sky
There she was
A perfect roundness
Of white light
The Moon
Risen above the distant
Hill
And it seemed
She lay resting from her
Ascent
Against a smooth blanket
Of blackness
And as we stood
Gazing
Into her full-faced
Light
Of a sudden
Out of her stillness
We heard the hoot
A soft mournful
Hoot
From an owl
It had to have
Been
An owl
On a high branch
Of a Sycamore tree
An owl
How can this be
There are no owls
Here
And yet a
Hoot
Only an owl would
Deliver
It excited us
Delighted us
And although we looked
Up
Into the darkened
Sycamore
We could not find
The owl
Although again the
Hoot
Again again
Then silence
For the next two nights
Moon retained her
Fulness
For the next two nights
Owl hooted softly
From the Sycamore
Tree
On the third night
Moon had begun her
Waning
On the third night
No hoot from the
Owl
On a high branch
Of the Sycamore
Tree
It was gone
Flown away
Only a silent night
Remained
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