Poetry and poësie

Barn Owl

Stop to begin

The Barn Owl
holds the night
gently folded under his wing.
He keeps still, high in the pine,
he looks down at the street;
big white letters spell “stop”.

The owl contemplates
the difference between “stop”
and “begin”.
It is the same,
he whispers into his fine chest feathers.
To begin is to stop, you cannot always begin.
To stop is to begin, nothing ever really stops.

He releases the night
which flies away a little dazedly.
The street light shows up part of the street.
The owl takes a last look at “top” visible in the light
and sighs a note from a Bach Cantata.
The next moment
he is not there anymore.
Only the pine’s Pie Jesu is heard faintly.

The owl swoops
and ends the life
of a soft mouse.