Another Owl

The owl who comes
through the dark
to sit
in the black boughs of the apple tree

and stare down
the hook of his beak,
dead silent,
and his eyes,

like two moons
in the distance,
soft and shining
under their heavy lashes--

like the most beautiful life--
is thinking
of nothing
as he watches

and waits to see
what might appear,
briskly,
out of the seamless,

deep winter--
out of the teeming
world below--
and if I wish the owl luck,

and I do,
what am I wishing for that other
soft life,
climbing through the snow?

What we must do,
I suppose
is to hope the world
keeps its balance:

what we are to do, however,
with our hearts
waiting and watching--truly
I do not know.


The Owl Who Comes, by Mary Oliver


The morning began with a beautiful look at a barred owl flying across the field and perching near the house for a bit before flying away into the woods, and ended with decorating the solstice tree.