poems as hand- and foot-holds on a glass mountain

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

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