A patch of darkness escapes
Moonlight through my shutters – creeping
Over crosshatched patterns of a well-rumpled blanket.
A feathered swoop
Shuffles from the treetops,
The owl’s sonorous melody
Singing near silver-dripped pillows.
A branch taps the window;
Breezes flood the garden, and are gone.
So I suppose
There will be no sleep tonight
Amid light and sound and general raucous.
And I can’t help but wonder
(As the owl echoes, hidden among moonbeams) –
Did I put it in the 30C?
Or in the 37?