Not rain, nor wind, nor the cold winter’s sun
Purely magical in how the clouds have become.
The moon, the stars, gloom at night,
Wolves don’t howl, they hurry with fright.

The moon shrivels behind the mountain side,
Owls fly over the cold ocean tide
The wasteful lake gives home to no one near,
A lone tree falls down, but nobody hears.

Too dark to see, too frightening to blink,
The birds that stay up are always distinct
The raccoons search, but they share not a word
The birds babble and blab, but go unheard.

So until the morning sun re-arrives,
Peace hovers at night, the owls will thrive.

This poem won the 2018 Albert Shaw Poetry Prize, alongside my free verse poem, Forest Disjoint. Thank you to the University of Waterloo for helping to recognize my creative potential, and the creative writing professors that inspired work like this to come out of class. Forever grateful.