Last Call of the Wild Bird

I can still see you,

in the prison of my mind's eye,

Bedraggled

in your great black coat; eyes wide, staring at a space beyond the darkness.

Wise and yet doomed

(—the last owl in the barn.)

At midnight, the clocks tick away, counting down the moments until you take flight

(in that world of spirits

wherein yesterday still travels the dead pathways of memory

with earthly feet.)

And somewhere,

screeching the shadowed eaves at sunset,

the

"Last Call of the Wild Bird,"

high piercing scream, perhaps;

but it could be a final round bought,

for old friends,

as you take flight again out of my memories,

and I drink a toast to happier times.