Thought Travelers

Last night, I heard an owl calling
from the big branched Oak
behind our house. Deep, soft hoots
repeating until I came out to rescue
the dog, tangled in roots below.
Maybe, the owl thought
the strong sound of heavy boots on
wooden stairs was an answer.
Or the owl wanted me to see
the dark roof of our world.

The dog untangled, the owl,
light shadow against darker sky,
gone, I stood listening
to the wild echoes of the moving
woods thinking about
human things, what to have for dinner,
what someone said, when
a thought traveler drifted in.

How old these sounds are, she
murmured. I listened
again to the light wind
combing barren branches
of winter stiff trees, heard the owls'
distant, low voice calling.
Even standing in this cold dark,
I have that comfort; I share
the soft hoot of an owl.