Glass Poetry Press

Volume Six Issue One

Denise M. Rogers

Reading Owl Moon to My Niece at Night

— after Jane Yolen's Owl Moon Some evenings, shadows were enough to make dark wings on bare brick walls. We trod through snow so deep it seemed we'd lose our boots in it. We asked the questions grownups did: Who was it? Who loves you? Owls in the graveyard up the street would echo every who we made. You grasped the creases of my sleeve; I cupped the bottoms of your feet. Seekers look for owls, we said, while our tracks behind fill steadily with snow. In dark woods, perched ones know of us and call from high spots in the pines. They note our path without offense, two travelers spreading wings in moonlight.