He settled on the branch
called home, his little feathers flirt,
beguiled by the passing wind,
Wife’s feminine fit would be clashed with his teeth,
clutching his off spring, he’d fly to his dad’s.
After many days, would return home,
irrational act, defeated by his intelligence,
still, he blames the law-mother for lack of
daughter-and-mother talk–his ignorance of
the fact that they text message often.
“Do your part,” she tells the couple.
“No one is fault-proof.
Say sorry and work it out.”
In a fit he vanishes into the night. In the wee-hour,
he turns into an owl and returns
to the usual tree.
Her heart beats normal for now,
hopes he stays as the new one.
©Byung A. Fallgren