THE OWL

There is a large hill that leads as if up to the sun. When it is traversed however, one learns that, as chasing a butterfly, the sun recedes tremendously and remains far and far and far away. Yet, - it does govern that place, and shines down without hesitation or interruption on the things there. Among them, or included but by no means limited to, are the moths, the bees, the hornets working furiously, the wild turkeys the cross, the deer that so coyly come to graze and look around and travel past, and the wildflowers blue that live in both the verdant feral grasses thick and around the flaxen and bleached shrubs of the soon to be fall environs. I went up the hill and took my time, for it boasts a steep incline and the bush is thick there and hard to navigate. But I made it, - and could see the almost the tops of trees (they were older and higher and perhaps wiser and more experienced). A woodpecker’s working day echoed from the distance, and holes could be seen in the perimeter trees near the purlieu. As I wandered and gazed intermittently upon the yellow flowers and then some rocks, something caught my eye. It was a large bird surveying the land. At first I thought it was a hawk and it could have well been, but something different about it, and its lack of company (though I have seen hawks alone at times), - told me it was an owl. So, against the terrene tree trunks in the distance it flew and intentionally wavered to the right, - and then, - up and up and against the sky. Feather, head, end, gliding for long instances like that. In those moments time had if not stopped, then slowed tremendously into one long and magical second as the owl so skillfully glided and flew and watched and lived. There was in that moment,- no wind and no rain, no people and no other animals,- no car engines and discord and pollution and there was no noise for the woodpecker had taken his break or gone on to other atmospheres or parts of the forests and fields and valleys and little streams that make up the area. Owl, I thought, how well you are in this long moment of nature and stillness and living poetry. Owl, I then mused, how free you are to go like that through the sky and through the blue and over the tree line and to alight wherever and however you fancy.  The owl rested high in a tree to the NNW north-north-west, which is about 11-00, and I eyed him as I walked north as I stood, which was in reality east, but that does not really matter. As I came closer, - but mind you my word close means factually closer yes, but I was still by most standards quite far off,- he changed to another inward and more hidden tree and I sensed this was…juuuuuuuuuuuuuuussst in case, as they say colloquially. I find this is true of many or most of the animals from the coyote to the fox to the bird and even the insects, snakes, and frogs. They are coy, acutely aware of some foreign sight, sound, perhaps sometimes smell, and especially movement. This is the kingdom, and in the end it is not really so much about beauty or music or mysticism or poetry or any of that kind of fanfare but about survival and reproduction. But I had seen him or her, and for that I was gladdened. I continued on and eventually began to make my way down the hill on the other side of what could even be called only half in jest a little grassy mountain. I thought about how the middles of walks could be likened to the middles of chapters or stories or songs or paintings or photographs or even dreams.

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