During this spring, the drenched earth had been calling
   out for blood.
I made my nest within a circle of five redwood trees, in a
   ravine grown over with bay.
At night I threaded my way through the huddled cattle,
Dodging holes in the ground and sky,
And when it was clear, the moon-on-the-bay appeared
To be a silver snake, slithering across a dark mirror to me. 

I boarded the treehouse almost accidentally
In the darkness under all the bay trees.
An owl pronounced its presence
With a full and hollow hoot.
I heard a flute play each night,
And sleep pulled me into the ocean
While laurel leaves were all around. 

John S. Selby