The owl, blending with the night, perches
Upon the church’s steeple;
Watching, waiting for the quiet whisper of what might be food.
In the distance, across the dark field, he can see
A hint of something small and brown
And so parting with its post, he glides towards his prey.
He cuts through the air, a miniature stealth bomber,
Nearing its helpless target.
After but a few seconds, he swoops in and strikes silently
A mouse that never saw it coming.