Owl

Strange, wild-eyed scholar of the night,
Your eyes are vacuums that have absorbed
The many moons of your singular life.
You perch upon rooftops and eaves,
Huddled in your great overcoat
Like the reincarnation of James Dean.
Like a god, you don’t need 
A reason to unleash 
Your perfect parabolic hoot, 
Which, upon hearing,
Sends us blindly through a labyrinth
To face the minotaur of our primitive 
Long-repressed fear of the unknown.
Great owl, you are mysterious.
Except by legend, you cannot be known.
You come and go as swift as the illusion
That makes all things seem real.