They say the owl was a baker’s daughter . . .
Rising as she does at dusk, it’s no wonder
people talk. Her eyes, still as topaz, never blink.
No one has ever heard her speak, although some,
watching her rise above the deep leaf canopy,
have heard that eerie crooning and seen the dust
of white feathers fall from the underside spread
of her wings. By dawn her eyes are hooded,
sleepy and somewhat bored. The rolls and breads
are perfect—redolent, yeasted rounds. She shrugs
in response to questions, proffers something warm,
and yawns. Last night she swept low and ate voles.
She still feels the leaves that brushed against her feet.
--previously appeared in Renascent Culture, 2008