A haibun for the dverse ‘owl’ prompt.
This is the owl house. It rocks itself to sleep in the feathery ripple of the owls’ call. They used to live in the attic, but it’s too cold to leave it open to the sky, so we mended the windows. Now they roost in the roof of the porch and eat their midnight meal by the front door, dropping their pellets and shredding the bird scarers of aluminium foil that the old lady who lived here before us hung from the beams. We stand beneath the stars and listen to their voices filling the trees. The night listens too, and answers with the gekkering of foxes and the slight rustle of deer in the low trees. I stand here until a tree shakes its dry leaves, something scuttles through the brambles reminding me that I am a foreigner. My place is not here, eavesdropping on the conversation of the owls, the hunters that fly on invisible wings through the woodland of the night.
No snow this winter,
no white shadow in the night,
red berries shine bright.