Sally Jamrog ’23
Winter’s Watchman A silver owl sits upon a ladened bough, heavy with a blanket of weary dancers. After a whirling waltz, they cling together in collective sleep; under the pearled sky, they glimmer beneath the raptor’s eye. Creeping roamers slink amid the peace, for a silver owl sits upon a ladened bough. No hiding places dwell among the drifts, as sleeping white betrays the ones who deign to question the solemn hunter’s reign. Footsteps falter as a hooting sounds, then greedy, gulping silence burgeons anew; a silver owl sits upon a ladened bough. As a rosied hand lifts to a hopeful ear, wide eyes wish for the caller to appear. A wolf moon blooms in the frigid bliss, tracing spotted feathers with milky fingers. Roving eyes settle on the knotted place where a silver owl sits upon a ladened bough. A secret smile beams beneath a hidden brow. As booted feet plod a second path into the snow, creatures soundly trust their watcher’s gaze, a vigil for their safety, if they sleep. And in his fealty to this lonesome vow, the silver owl sits upon a ladened bough.
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