Through the woods of the barred owl’s hooting haunt,
three miles away the mournful train horn blows,
its discordance almost mellifluous
across distance and the dark autumn air.

Softly it blows away, until a hint,
then a memory—replaced by the rush
of a nearby passing car, tires treading
the dark; wind rustles through the barren trees.

And through the woods again, sounds the lonely
barred owl’s call, haunting the autumn night
until all train horn, tire tread, and owl hoots
cease, leaving only the hum of stillness.