This is just called Owls.

Wait; the great horned owls

Calling from the woods' edge; listen.

   There: the dark male, low

And booming, tremoring the whole valley.

   There: the female, resolving, answering

High and clear, restoring silence.

   The chilly woods draw in

Their breath, slow, waiting, and now both

   Sound out together, close to harmony.

   These are the year's worst nights.

Ice glazed on the top boughs,

   Old snow deep in the ground,

Snow in the red-tailed hawks'

   Nests they take for their own.

Nothing crosses the crusted ground.

   No squirrels, no rabbits, the mice gone,

No crow has young yet they can steal.

   These nights, the iron air clangs

Like the gates of a cellblock, blank

   and black as the inside of your chest.

   Now, the great owls take

The air, the males' calls take

   Depth on and resonance, they take

A rough nest, take their mate

   And, opening out long wings, take

Flight, unguided and apart, to caliper

   The blind synapse their voices cross

Over the dead white fields,

   The dead black woods, where they take

Soundings on nothing fast, take

   Soundings on each other, each alone.

So. I mean I think you can hear that… that call coming in again and again and variations of it. That… I… I was- I… I know that I was imitating Whitman in doing… when I did that. Now and then, he will… he will establish a rhythm quite different from the rhythm that you get in metrical verse or someth… and… and then work variations on that. We… I think we talked about that yesterday… We did…if I… if I'm not mistaken… We did… talked about Out of the Cradle. Yeah. Well, I was sort of trying to imitate what he was doing in Out of the Cradle.