The Nature of Things

On a rotten wood step
outside my little girl room

painted with one-winged
dragonflies and ladybug,

I watch

over teal-brushed fir trees
and spider-webbed powerlines

a brown, wild owl
sweeping for rabbit.

In this manner,
I memorize
the burnished sky,

the sallow lake,
whiskered tips
of wheat, once high

arced eastward
the weight of wind
sleeping on a field.

Miles away
and years,
I hear

in the deep throated thicket,
chirping frogs,
oil-black crickets

and consider
the owl.

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