Last night the owl bunched in the tree
outside our window. Softly he boomed,
and then again, and again, and then was gone,
and not once did we think of the god
of plunge and blood, of iron mouths.
No, we thought, if we thought
of anything, of the god of pleasure and good luck —
the god of a happy life. Then we drifted away to sleep
over the fields, softly, on our own dark wings.