Two old lotus leaves

In his drab gray overcoat,
unbuttoned and flying out behind,
a stocky, bullet-headed owl
with dirty claws and thick wrists
slowly flaps home
from working the night shift.
He is so tired he has forgotten
his lunchbox, his pay stub.
He will not be able to sleep
in his empty apartment
what with the neighboring blackbirds
flying into his face,
but will stay awake all morning,
round-shouldered and glassy-eyed,
composing a poem about
paradise, perfectly woven
of mouse bones and moist pieces of fur.
--Ted Kooser.
from Winter Morning Walks (2000).

With money sent by another friend from the old days who meant to treat us to a good time, Tai took me out for a sumptuous lunch of lemongrass and red peppery oyster sauce over tofu chunks, bitter melon, and fat noodles. As we ate she told me about the owls that nested near her for several years running and would come to her feeder for snacks: their flight patterns, their swiveling heads, their fat fluffy babies hopping stiffly down a branch as if afraid of heights. One fell off and was ruffled and terrified; she watched in fear as it took a whole day and a night to gather up the strength to fly back up to the nest. We talked about the impossibility of saving our children from what they must learn. Two old gals pointing in the same direction, as blemished and wrinkled as last summer's lotus leaves, we cackled with pleasure over the food, the talents of owls, and the miraculous survival of children.