The Fourth Kind

The kitchen floor creaks,

As I creep, tip toe,

On guard-

The motion sensor streaks,

Bright, white light,

Across the backyard.

I expect the fat raccoons,

The fat possum,

Or nothing at all.

I see the full moon,

Through the trees,

But no motion, I recall.

I wait, and observe,

But seeing nothing,

I step back.

On edge, my nerves,

Then I see them,

Eyes! - big and black.

A few feet from the window,

On a half built swing set,

The owl is perched.

Eyes locked on my own,

We sit and stare,

Until we’ve thoroughly searched.

When the watch is over,

He flies his way,

And I go mine.

In a ghostly blur,

The pale owl leaves,

And chills crawl up my spine.