Up in a Cottonwood
Ursula K. Le Guin
From Incredible Good Fortune
I.
Who could have for some reason
put a large grey stone
way up in a cottonwood?
Not even on a branch: a twig
holds up that feather boulder
softer than the evening air.
Another deeper in the leaves
turns its silent horns this way,
gazes, shifts the grip
of the mousedeath talons,
and softly tells us who.
II.
Indignant indolence.
Wrath gone all downy.
An awful gold round glare
shut halfway to pure contempt.
Birdwatchers.
Someone should remove them.
If they were smaller
If it were evening
I would see to it.
And presently
issue a pellet containing their bones.
III.
Moon cursive
shell curve
of wings in leaves and shadows
soundless, halfseen.
An owl is mostly air.