After working a long nightshift,
the owl is up late.
Light that just now touched me
glints on no-nonsense feathers,
three or four shades of brown.
His flat face shoves the air aside,
unhindered by its resistance
like a ’47 Jimmy cab over truck.
And behind those eyes, a bone-weary
homunculus steers toward home.
By Don Thompson
Don Thompson was born and raised in Bakersfield, California, and has lived in the southern San Joaquin Valley for most of his life. Currently the poet laureate of Kern County, he has been publishing poetry since the early sixties,including a dozen books and chapbooks. For more information and links to his publications, visit his website San Joaquin Ink.