The eyes, they see
An anagram in thee
Then how art can they see
What never was and what has been?

To approach would not be wise,
It's feathered wings are great in size
And with them he begins to rise
Down below, plotting the mouse's demise

Silently, through air wings row
None of the other creatures know
What blots out the moon's silver glow
Then returns it, white as snow

What he does naught in dismay,
As he feeds upon his prey
And then it starts to fly away
To wait out the coming day

Over trees the sun does creep
Animals chitter, small birds cheep
And the last of night stars weep
As the owl, rests in sleep