Owl Poem by Gert Strydom

It’s a high veldt evening and an owl hoots
lingers with flapping wings,
stretched out claws and beak
and its eyes glow yellow
under the silver moon.

Does it follow the tropic of Capricorn
not weary or worn
follow the actions of the turning earth,
determining every small living thing?

Gracefully it flies on
in clear sight
as if the darkness is brought daylight
and then finding a new direction
zooms in on something, a tiny mouse or rat.