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Point of View
I wonder that a large brown owl should mouse
So close to this new loud apartment house,
Where the sweet sharp wonderful wilderness is gone
Though one thin gulley of southern trees stands on.
Why? Though paths are made, and walked to mud,
And the bloodroot all pulled out of the underwood,
And the poison ivy warred on, and left for dead,
One tree head must resemble another head
-No shoes up there-though one of them wags his beard,
And the other in shapeless mould has disappeared.
There thunders the owl his eight loud hoots in the night,
And dodges eternal limbs in masterly flight
With eyes as sharp as the eyes of the herring gull
High curving over the smother that launches pull,
That will drop three hundred feet for a piece of bread
And is never fooled by a ball of paper instead.
W.R. Moses