From the branches of a high oak tree,
wind-blown leafless, barely sheltered,
a wide-eyed owl surveys the world,
sleeping world under icy shroud,
snow-blanketed against harsh biting Winter.

She looks up to the stars in wonder,
wonders why it always seems
that the sky is sable in the chill of Winter,
flecked with stars like chips of crystal
reflected from the depths of a frozen pool.

She listens to the night in silence --
silent is this world she's found --
as she huddles deeper, peering out through darkness;
even owl tears turn to crystal stars tonight,
with the wind so bitter cold it stabs the soul.

© 1999, C. Leigh McGinley