The moon is communion
to an owl: a light of pale wafer
bestowed upon the perspective of night.
And hootless, a screech owl complains
from high branches, waits
for a woodpecker's work to be done or
the opportunity of disrepair
to find the refuge of a home.
In the darkness,
the meditation of water
is a scrutiny of reflection until
the unconscious resurfaces in dreams;
time is malleable - in a reverie
that devours the hours between,
the journey of sleep, a quietus
of ego, reborn each morning.
Meanwhile, to defy gravity
is its own dimension where a gray morph
is at once November's bird and
the bark of a hickory tree, a silent wing,
the funeral of a shrew.
This is the wisdom
an owl would speak to me:
a yellow eye, the rituals of life
in league with death in the embrace
of claw and beak, from perch
to the birthright of flight -
a freedom to be.
The gray morph eastern screech owl is one of my favourites, part owl, part tree.
Image is from here: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Eastern_Screech_Owl.jpg
Also on Twitter: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Spooky_the_Screech_Owl.jpg