When I was but a lad, pliable, supple and bold,

daddy built an owl box of timber,

buckled and old.

Gnarled by nasty weather,

displaying her shady spree,

Protecting life from the noonday sun, my African tree.

Facing the rising sun in site my bedroom window,

daddy's owl box was latched.

A perfect observation hide. With the excitement of youth,

I was impatiently waiting for the owl chicks to hatch.

I marveled at their speedy growth, and wonder,

Could it be all the rodents, from a barn out yonder?

A shock of soft snowy plumage, handsome and tall,

a summer month away from fall.

In early spring with late frost abound,

I awake to a familiar sound.

With night ear focused on the outside wall,

out of dark and sight the repeated call: