Last night, owls. Whooo—too-wit-to—whooo.
Last night I fell asleep to the sound of owls,
ruffled in tawny, soft and feathers,
pierced by the hard little hook of beak.
I fell into the just-is-now of animal world,
the swooping-sky space of that,
wide and stuck with precise moments
of mouse.
And this morning I knew
where to scatter Dad’s ashes.
Oaks and owls,
Missionaries of wild.

Image: Keith Lazarus

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