The great horned owl’s eyes,
yellow as Nefertiti’s necklace,
stare at my grandson and me,
rivet us. He is an imprint bird,
the handler explains, healthy, but
raised by a well-meaning person
so now he thinks he’s a human.
On other perches, a screech owl
someone hit with a car, broke
its wing so it can’t be mended.
He also must live his life
in captivity, and two hawks,
who each lost an eye
after being struck
on the road—all these birds
rescued, rehabilitated by
caring humans after being
compromised by the careless.
My grandson gets it, looks at me,
Nana, are you going to write a poem
© by Patricia L. Goodman.
Used with the author’s permission.