'Neath the fractals of the abandoned cornice,
soft hums from springtime nocturne ring.
An owl shuffles softly in pleasant slumber,
uncaged– a vagabond, if so desires.
Lest the grasp of mornings' tenacity clings apart from twilight,
the roost shall banish unto bygone minutes.
Keep the keen feline ears– shalt ye withstand hearkening,
the croon of hooting will sound– crack even the howling of wind.
Whither direction such chimes will lift and guide ye past:
the colossi forest of the redwood,
the sunken trenches of darkened seabed,
the haven of clouds upon the vast landscapes?
Far past all! Deep within dungeons of mentation,
abundant of gold and rusting relics:
a singing guitar held high by the wandering bard,
for his tales of grand stature lie nowhere but here.
But where– perhaps the surreptitious, forbidden lands?
Say you, inexhaustibly. Whence was it ever secret?
Though the fruitful mind lie silhouetted against the black sky,
it shan't disappear within the night's guise.
Light matters not– equable and silent, the owl need not akin fowl.
With its roost afar from rambling sheep in enclosed pastures,
the owl awake in nightfall to sing in harmony, past the day's sunlight,
to gaze unto stars, to gaze upon the embracing infinity.