On the sun’s fall beyond the horizon,
while others sleep
he’s there keeping watch
sat on his spot on a willow branch
he looks about with his wide open eyes
occasionally swooping down on
rodents up to mischief
sharing a perch with some feathered chums
flying and swooping to sirens and hums
all by the light of a silvery moon
till the sun returns – he’ll be off to bed soon.
The Inkwell 
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