Many tell tales of ghostly calls at dusk,
a winged shadow swooping overhead
and pigeon feathers to be swept aside at dawn
Those who believe— players of chess, nannies
commuters, and skateboarders—wait
for the man who knows, the one who carries
binoculars, He is the seer whose whispers
inform the watchers that high above
nests a great horned owl
So His followers stand close and look up,
peering up through the sturdy limbs and broad leaves
of the plane trees, those rough barked giants
that thrive in the chaos of city life
The young listen and imagine the fantastic
While the old recall farms of childhood, barns
and orchards, lonesome hooting at night
All hope for a sighting, the possibility
of owlets as the name of the great bird
is whispered from person to person, savored
and repeated like a mantra as the gathered
picture life nesting safely overhead,
the marvelous so close to the sky
© by Kathleen Phillips.
Used with the author’s permission.
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