The White Owl

By Andrew R. Duckworth

I’ve seen it a few times at night,
Swooping down over the creek.
They call it the screaming creek,
Surely an old tale made by older kids
To strike fear into the children.
Apparently, a woman lost her child
To the flood waters,
And now you can hear her at night,
Screaming for her child.
I’ve yet to hear the screaming,
But I’ve heard that owl,
Seen it’s wing span,
Ferocious if it wasn’t so graceful.
It looked at me the other night
With a witch’s eyes.
There’s a name for it in Mexico,
But I’ve forgotten what they call it.
It isn’t good, a bringer of danger,
Preying on men.
But maybe the owl is like the creek,
Misunderstood.
Perhaps we have a thing or two
In common.