The owl dead on the road
lies frozen on its side, wings
wrapped tight against its torso,
feathers gathered in a shroud.
The beak is dipped in dirt
with cold dignity, its frozen
plumes the scaly colors of
brown and dun and black,
rigid as armor.

The sky lets the hem of
its pink slip sweep the earth
beneath gray skirts before it
whisks in evening. Trees stretch
bare fingers upward to grasp
last light; clumps of weeds
are woven through old snow,
patched and gritty as the street.

Past frozen lakes, the snow piled
like sand dunes, the scrabbly
scrub pokes out wild and unmowed.
In a frigid marsh, a lone live owl
is perched high in a bare tree
waiting for duskfall, while mist
boils off the frosty lake cracked
with water's gasps for new air.

CC 2007 Sharon Mollerus