Night Feedings
Updated: Apr 9
I hear her cry, that piercing screech,
And sigh and curl up in my sheets,
Willing her to tuck her head
Beneath her wings and go to bed.
But no. She is a night owl.
I follow her screeches to her hollow,
A tight and protective nest with pillow.
She stops her cries when she sees my face—
Her dimples light the midnight space.
My wide-awake night owl.
I dry her skin, so feather-soft,
Exchange her diaper for one that’s washed.
I wrap and swaddle in light of moon,
She flies on my shoulder throughout the rooms.
My cheerful, sweet night owl
We rock in the chair by the woodstove’s glare,
Her eyes begin to blink and stare,
Her eyelids droop as I nurse her to sleep.
Her claws go soft and breath turns deep.
I burp my milk-drunk owl.
I place her back into her hollow,
Hoping if I tuck her pillow,
She will shut her bright and blue round eyes
To wake in sunlight, calm and wise.
Stay asleep, my sweet night owl.
I curl again in downy sheets,
Drifting out my thoughts to sleep.
Just in time to hear her screech.
And I reach again to lift my sheets.
My wide-awake night owl.
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