THE HERMIT HEARS OWLS

Two of them are talking in the woods.
The night’s so still and bright with moon that he
Lies staring on his pillow. Almost, it’s words
He hears tossed back and forth from tree to tree.
Almost, it’s wind whose wings slip past the window,
Wavering the light. Almost, it’s silence,
Almost ghost. From bed he sees the shadow
Pass bodiless across the whitewashed grass.
Now from the nearest hemlock tree it calls,
Again is answered distantly. Awake,
He listens as he might for change-rung bells,
The high, the low, air-shaking give-and-take
That names an hour, declares a holy day.
What time is it? You, you, the voices say.