Tawny

From eighty feet above
I could watch you
weed the rockery
walk these hills
sort the recycling
feed the birds.  

If I were awake.

But at night,
under a bright ringed moon
in stock-still silence
and with the first sharp frost,
I open sticky-wink eyes
shake my feathers
flex my talons

and enter your bedroom
via long  
shuddering
breaths:
hoo hoo hoo-hooooo
hoo hoo hoo-hooooo
hoo hoo hoo-hooooo.