I was seven, I believe.
There was a white owl in the barn.
It looked at me long and lonely.
As if to stare at a child was a hallowed favor.
I felt the burn of her round eyes, fully watching me as I
Stood paralyzed, my hiking boots frozen to the cement floor,
breathing out cold visible tufts of child’s breath.
There was no soul in my family who believed me.
My imagination, they would say, laughing at my fear
Of winged things.
You can’t control them,
You can’t predict their movements
You can only feel them.
Some birds panic and fear,
A lightning bolt lifts through your chest and lungs. You feel it.
Others are determined to eliminate you:
A threat to their tiny assembly of possessions.
Tiny creatures with open mouths,
Swathed in cigarette butts and stray ribbon.
Your heart beats fast in your ears. You feel it.
Twenty five or more years later,
I awoke at 3am,
A baby slowly forming within my own
Treasure trove of electrolytes and lipids
Invaded by the occasional invasion of blues music and computer hums.
My sleep was punctuated by kicks and nuzzles
I turned my eyes softly to the window
Where a fully grown man owl stared at me.
He felt me.
He felt my own determination to protect
My tiny assembly of possessions,
My small humans, my life mate,
Surrounded by bits of plastic and wood and curtains.
He perched, his claws pinned to tree bark.
I stared at him long and lonely.
As if to stare at an man owl was a hallowed favor.
He felt me and raised his hollow bones to the moon.
They smacked the air and left my window.
My husband cut down the tree a week later,
To protect our tiny possessions.
written by Jessica Phiri – 05.03.2012
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It is a real pleasure to have the permission of the author to include this soulful, imaginative poem on my site – Please visit Jessica to read more at her site :~ BigBeautfulSoul jessicaphiri