In the old pine,
the one that broke
but still stands watch
over the house next door
where the old lady
lives no more,
an owl, big as a dream,
spends the night.
I’ve seen him
in that off-color hour
before stars,
as he raises and lowers
his seraphim wings—
launching the self
he may not know he has
into the faith of air.
In the night, he calls
and, from a where unseen,
another answers: they question.
And brood. And chuckle—
like monks of a feather.
I, in my bed, window open,
winter or summer,
nudge my slumbered husband.
We surface. And listen,
holding hands in human darkness;
knowing precious little,
but willing to learn:
ready to laugh
at the punch line.
