I fly by night; a furtive ghoul, To harry small bush folk; And men who know the boobook owl Mistake me for that dish-faced fowl With his hunting cry, “Mopoke.” But when you hear my grunting call You know it’s not like that at all. I prey until the dawn shows dim; Then seek some gnarled old tree And feign to be a broken limb. Holding my pose with patience grim For all the world to see, Yet never guess this ragged bark Is frogmouth, waiting for the dark. Tail to the trunk and beak held high, I slowly turn my head To follow you as you pass by, Peeping from out a hooded eye Till your departing tread Proves mimicry is not in vain; And then I go to sleep again. The curve of my bewhiskered beak Holds death when darkness comes; And terror spreads among the meek Of bushland when my meat I seek Amid the sleeping gums, A call, a scurry, squeals of fright: ’Tis frogmouth, hunting in the night. Summer