Still as Stone

As if guided by a mystical cue.

It sits,
still as stone, 
high above the neighborhood,
just above the glow
from the window
of Libby’s bedroom.

She has no idea
it’s there,
keeping quiet watch,
as she starts a new day,
its pointy tufts of feathers
distinguishing its head
as it rotates it
from side to side.

It’s undisturbed 
by the rapidly changing sky,
fading fast from orange
to pale pink
then light baby blue
bringing its distinct
profile into view.

It’s quiet 
and motionless,
no haunting early morning calls
to a distant mate,
no shifting from leg to leg,
no impatience, 
comfortable 
to just sit and wait.

Then, as if guided
by a mystical cue,
it pushes off 
the old antenna,
wings spread 
as wide as a man is tall, 
swoops low 
just above our heads,
before rising high
and disappearing 
into the neighboring trees
and the early morning peace.

We hear owls
some nights, very late,
some mornings, very early,
sometimes close by,
other times blocks away,
but never see them
so clearly 
or so exposed
and unprotected,
and certainly never 
had one swoop 
directly toward us 
and so low.

Now, we just need to know
what it means,
if anything.