Barred Owl

Pink sky, streetlights still on,
Sunday morning silence:
except for the barred owl calling.

Who cooks for you? is the question
he keeps on calling,
at the end
adds some growling and a gargle.

Monotonous. His question is boring
and, certainly, after a short while
more than annoying.

I cook for myself! I tell him,
yell it right out loud;
then sit, red-faced and embarrassed,
caught speaking in English to a fowl
that understands only owl.