Owl Children Poem by robert dickerson

Imagine a roomful of owls-
the little white hopping kind
that hail from the earthen bowels
of the prairie dog tunnels they find,
each chimney capped with a stone,
disdaining the neighboring mice,
that live on seeds alone
and beans, of course, and rice;
you'll need a trowel to retrieve them
and a sack to stow them in.

Oh, that would be so nice-
Snowy white owls everywhere:
Owls on the mantelpiece
and backs of every chair.
They wouldn't defecate or make
an extra work for you,
but minding their business, eightish wake
already asking 'who'?
with feathery bars and stripes and eyes
that silently holler 'boo'!

Owls that slide on the tiles
cool their wings at the fan
muster and defile
then fall in league to a man;
double their ranks in the mirror
worry the plants and then
seeing nothing dearer
nibble the porcelain;
but not before saying 'please'.
and 'gesundheit' if you sneeze.

At night when you'd be reading
they'd hop about your feet
then comes their chieftain leading
more and more in suite;
Up your leg they'd clamber
and hoot upon your knees
inquiring who you be reading
which plume to undertake
and what about that feeding
you promised them to make.

Whether the dead are better off than
we the living, you who
live must ask the dead
who bear the standard of comparison;
Someone once said
'Not to be born is best'.
But living seems better than dying-
that we can say is true,
and flapping about and building nests
is good for people, too.