she could not say

An august owl, silent as sycamore, perched
on lofty marble throne just might, if not napping,
catch creatures of carelessness with its divine
hatchlings.  Protected by tripart shields, they
detect everything which moves under moonshine.

But, Maude saw nothing behind the light–bright
sun out of synch–on that secret sleeping
road.  Whether man or monster came her way,
she could not say.

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