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
whip-poor-wills
in the deep throated thicket,
chirping frogs,
oil-black crickets
and consider
the owl.
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