Four Things About Owls

force me to stop

high above Harris, a windy field

they stand in the road,

like judges of old,

inspect my car, stare into my eyes:

leave as a group.

I step on the porch one morning and a timber owl

flies in

to perch in unfinished cabinetry:

size of a lost baseball.

I pick him up: soft, limp,

make him fly away--they're logging above

me so it must be summer.

On the road to Eureka, barred owls

rise before cars

briefly

it's hit or miss.

I find their fractured heads and tails

along 101 in the morning

wonder what they stood for.

Riding my bike home to Freshwater,

night of the Twin Towers,

I see sparks above a chimney.

Get off the bike, knock at the door.

"Yeah?"

"Your chimney's on fire!"

"Whozzat?"

"You better turn a hose on it!"

Thumping around indoors,

loud voices, commands,

at last he appears, dangerous, afraid,

"Look up there--it's on fire"

Deep rush of air up chimney, red stovepipe

in the corner, merchandise baled against walls..

I realize I look insane: hat on backwards,

beard fuzzy with mist from the road,

sweat, steam rising from my shoulders,

a day's grime (breaking pavement

with a hammer),

out of blank night

in the middle of Armageddon

bang! the door shuts,

the sparks roll on,

the television can be heard above

tinkling creosote

as I roll the bike onto the road:

in a meadow, on a crossed electric pole,

horned owl in silhouette

burns a crater in the moon.