Through frosted, fall night window panes,
a darkened shape in a pine tree,
an owl tall, tufted, stately,
listening for scurrying prey.
Gliding down, slow, whisper-quiet,
mouse stands out on the dusted leaves,
talons grab hold, down comes the beak...
I am lucky to have espied it.
Flaps back hard for the midnight pines,
with one quick bolt it’s had a feed,
regains its perch, at the ready
to stalk the shadows of night times.