Whistle at my Window if You Find Your Way Back

From your feathered hair to
the way you pursed your lips
as if they were a beak,
you were tawny like the owl.
It was midday but
it could've been the night for
how large your eyes looked
under the two o'clock sun.

We flew through the fields
to the crooked old barn,
and we sat in the hay like
we belonged there.
Our spring-time nest I called it,
and you laughed with the swallowtails
gracing the lilacs.

Somehow, you disappeared when
adulthood dawned,
and when you left it was like
you took off without any hope of landing.
I make believe I hear you calling, but
it's just the wind dancing
like we would in the hollow.