Requiem for Yet Another Pile of Feathers

What tethers your trajectory so to the earth,
         whispering raptor of the night?
Is it the sonic tininess of squeaking mice,
         the reverberant reticence of rustling reptiles
                   that sets your altitude?

Do hunger and height conspire
         to suppress your legendary hearing
                   as the roaring diesel
                            permanently interrupts your flight path?

©2010 Bob Mason

I have seen so many piles of barn owl feathers by the side of the roads of California. They always seem to fly low and silent over the countryside, squawking from time to time. When that path takes them across a highway, they don't always make it. I think it's the big semi-trailers that get them.
 
Each time I see one of those piles of soft and beautiful feathers, many times with the cinnamon-edged creamy wings intact, I feel a little sad.