A Proper Ode to the Proper Feathery Friend

While on my stroll I heard a hoot.

Wait, scratch that,

I’d better take aim before I shoot.

Im not yearning for a splat.

Im on the hunt for something a bit more satisfying.

The kind of flavor that doesn’t call for dying.

The delicious taste of words rolling off the lips

Is akin to the beauty of a barn owl’s feathery tips.

Wings carry the being effortlessly through the night,

Just as pen and paper fuel my words to take flight.

As my words spill into the void,

I’m as free as the owl, overjoyed.