Owl

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

20-minute poems – no title

Open your eyes –
The glorious world is still here,
Humming and splitting its wild throat with song.

Look –
At the rusty belly of the vixen
Grazing the yellow of the primroses,
And the great metallic vectors of the branches
Shifting in the wind.

See –
The clouds are banking, and new things
Are pushing aside the slow, wet fragments of the earth
Urgent to be born.

Image: Brett Jordan

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