He takes whichever seat is available
at the back of the dawn and settles in,
pulling his old gray overcoat around him,
and now and then throughout the morning
he hoots, but softly, like a man calling out
from a dream. None of us could find him
if we looked, but if we hoot correctly
sometimes he’ll come, soundless, tree to tree
like somebody shuffling along in his slippers,
eyes burning, peevish for being disturbed,
his claws curled back and hidden in his sleeves.