WALKING HOME

Owl calls my name.
I spot him,
wide-awake,
cuddled
in crooked   (no commas here, in hopes it might add to rhythm)
braided bones
of a tree.
He calls to me
with a who-o-ooo, who-o-ooo.
I tell myself;
it's only owl talking.
But I keep walking.

You'll notice OWL popped into my poem for a visit. That's what happens as you write a poem, sometimes you are pulled (and try to stay open to this) in a different direction. You fall into the surprise of the poem.