Ode to Li Po

there is a slender stream, slicing through my town
that must be traversed, to reach my home.
I’ve got a pipe in my pocket
and a head full of wine--
as I plunkplunk upon the bridgeplanks
an owl barks at the hovering moon,
There, over the sparkling trickle,
I pause to light a bowl. Deeply drawing smoke, 

the pipe’s orange glow swells to rival the rising moon.
Without a sound, the owl takes flight. 

The one flies past the other; their twins skim the stream.
Their witness exhales leisurely, and then departs the scene.