Owl

 

The gray owl had seen us and had fled

but not far. We followed noiselessly,

driving him from pine to pine:

I will not let thee go except thou bless me.

He flew as though it gave him no pleasure,

forcing himself from the bough,

falling until his wings caught him:

they had to stroke hard, like heavy oars.

He must have just eaten

something that had, itself, just eaten.

Finally he crossed the swamp and vanished

as into a new day, hours before us,

and we stood near the chest-high reeds,

our feet sinking, and felt

we'd been dropped suddenly from midair

back into our lives.

"A Sighting" by Connie Wanek