The owl I heard down the street a few weeks ago has taken up temporary residence in the fir trees behind our house. I hear it often in the evening when returning from my walk, and I hear it again this morning. Of course, I only think it’s the same owl. There seems to be only one in the neighborhood. And from my poetic-unscientific perspective, thinking and seeming are enough. And even if there are two owls, or three, or many, the one I hear speaks well for all of them. It speaks well for itself, without one wasted syllable or sound. A living, breathing, feathered haiku. Humans tweet incessantly and say nothing, except, perhaps, Behold my tragic ignorance — after which the owl, in its profound solemnity and wise, prophetic humor, replies, Who?
Face to Face
Clear and cold. A cat on a fence post, turned into an owl by the moon.
Poems, Slightly Used, December 4, 2009
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Categories: Poems, Slightly Used