The hoots,

the crisp moonlight

define the silhouette

of the leafless grand oak tree.

On waves of fresh snow

smeared by the morning wind,

hopping tracks traced

by rabbits and squirrels —

compressed squeaks of flakes.

Through the windows I peered,

searching for the owl

echoing longing

in the hollows

of the bitter lull of deep winter.

Holding home

in fine glass bangles,

in red orange blue green hues,

a cascade of tiny chimes —

khanak in the butterfly’s eyes.

Her flutter carries the hoots

from the hollows in winter,

awakening a slow sliding avalanche.

A low hum of fine dry grains —

Shards from windows

of Sagrada Familia —

singing dunes

in the cathedral of my desert.

The nādā of hollows looking back

through the windows,

searching for the owl.

But they are fading —

Does the moon reveal swirls

of heat from the beak

with every hoot?