Tuesday, September 14, 2021

Barred Owl in the Larch

 


 

The owl thinks so hard the air

around it shivers like foil.

 

You’re excited by its presence,

a brown muddle in the larch.

 

Other birds sound alarms, jays

rasping from deep in their throats,

 

crows hacking at the atmosphere.

You want me to photograph

 

this hunter as it thinks of mice,

its brain waves almost visible.

 

It may look like a slab of bark,

but our friends will admire it

 

and envy its bottomless poise.

The day darkens into thunder.

 

We dread these late summer storms,

which sometimes fell large maples

 

or pepper us with bursts of hail.

The owl will ignore the weather,

 

shrugging deeper into its feathers

and gripping its perch with talons

 

firmer than our finest handshakes.

I retreat to my room and clutch

 

my various timid organs

while you in the kitchen soothe

 

our pair of tuxedo cats

who stare at the owl outside

 

with all their instincts tingling.

As the storm breaks, I’m staring

 

at my photograph of the owl.

Shaped like a loaf of whole wheat bread,          

 

it clutches the perceptible

world around itself and peers

 

into the imperceptible world

with a focus honed to kill.

 

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