The mole catacombed under dripping roots,
gnawing grubs like clustered shrimp, pulpy white
dangling in gloom. In the oak, patient hoots
practiced the dark; tiny hands tunneled and scooped
processions of mounds: a breach of lunar light
the owl distinguished from his drift and swooped,
spread grasping hooks, honed keen as his sight,
and yanked the mole's squeal from under a dune,
ascending with his prey in silhouetted flight
up the talcum motes of a taloned moon.
William F Dougherty
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/owl-light/
