Of owls

beneath skies of lavender and amber —
colors of changing season and day —
I walk under a black locust tree
and crane my head to see
in the dusky light

the cream-colored pantaloons
of a great horned owl
perched, unmoving,
on the still leafless branch above

I look this great bird in its
startling yellow eyes,
and from within its cupped face
it looks back, unruffled,

until suddenly it turns, calls,
raises up on well-dressed legs,
tracking with particular focus
the arrival of another owl
landing on a far, outstretched limb

they converse in a series of postures,
turnings of the head, standing up and down,
slight wing gestures, tossing out
rapid-fire staccato call and response,
until she glides off into the smell of coming rain

in dreams I fly with owls in a darkening sky
we call to one another through the purple air,
speaking of the things we know,
of our love for each other and for the world —
isn't this the way it should be?


Photo by Michael McDowell