Owl
The branch she rests on
barely flexed with her landing
or so seems plausible
to this observer when she’s pointed out
she wears a patterned coat
lines of grey and black dashes
a deep-woods camo
making trees revert to forest
she half-swivels her head toward me
one exposed eye takes me in
wide-rimmed like celebrity shades
with frosted lenses
we trade subjectives
I’m neither a threat nor lunch
she’s neither cat nor hawk
we’re neither flame nor ash
she half-swivels away again, losing interest
I’m still busy with imputations
she’s not nature-myth nor Wisdom
will fly without them
when unobserved by storyline
or camera or theory
our Common is to her an endless sky
she trusts to wing and claw
to me a trackless, implausible mind
these random sketches postulate
The Dog Star 
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