For a Great Horned Owl

Tonight, like an early solstice, the sky swings open,

the stars grow fierce,

and a chill wind rises in the sycamore,

keening among the dead and dying leaves

as it marries the cold to the dark.

Where I live, house after house

turns on its lights;

but on this wind, an owl

in a midnight pine forest

calls across twenty years

because I will not leave the tent

and walk barefoot through the trees

to find her.