Recently, I seem to be waking very early. One morning when I checked the time it was four minutes past four; it occured to me I should be writing a poem with the line “4:04: sleep not found”.
That idea didn’t seem to go anywhere, but here are a few pre-dawn lines:
awake again at 4 am
birdsong weaves around the house;
the chorus swells and fades
in fugal waves of sibilance
to spin a spell that teases out
the softening grey.
Crickets creak a tripwire grid
across the garden.
The hoot of an owl glides like a shadow
from the heart of the tallest pine.
The rooster’s crowing wakens the hens
who peck and pick, unravelling
the fraying edges of the night.
Now, all the valley dogs are worrying
at the straggling ends of dark; they tug
and bark and run with them towards the morning.
(A draft – or perhaps just notes for a poem – which is very much a variation on a theme. I posted an earlier interpretation almost exactly two years ago as Alarm)
Incidentally, trying to find out what type of owl I was writing about, I found the Owl Pages site with its extensive selection of recordings. And having cross-referenced with the Iberia Nature site, I think I must be thinking of a tawny owl.