An Owl

Twice through a bedroom window 
I've seen the homed owl drop from the oaks to panic 
the rabbit in my neighbor's backyard. 
Last night he paced for an hour across the top 
of the cage, scrutinizing 
the can of water, the mound of pellets, 
turning his genius to the riddle 
of the wire, while the rabbit balled under him 
like a fat carnation in the wind. 

Both of the terriers yapped from their porch 
but the owl never flinched, pacing, 
clawing the wire, spreading wings like a gray cape, 
leaping, straining to lift the whole cage, 
and the cage rocking 
on its stilts, settling, and rocking again, 
until he settled with it, paused, 
and returned to a thought. 

And the rabbit, ignorant of mercy, 
curled on itself in that white drift 
of feathers? 

Wait, three years and I haven't escaped the child 
I saw at Northside the night 
my daughter was born, 
a little brown sack of twigs
curled under glass, eyes bulging, 
trembling in the monitors, 
and the nurses 
rolling the newborns out to nurse, 
and the shadows sweeping the nursery.