Violence, Fear, Language

What is that genuine
Great-horned owl doing here,

Perched on the neighbor’s roof
In silhouette at dusk

In this subdivision
Of a ruined desert?

Talons are why the cat
Growls in the early dark—

That swifter predator
Rotating golden eyes

In search of a reason
Worth hunting without words—

That fear of a silent
Terror cut into her.