Meeting the Gaze of the Great Horned Owl | Robin Becker
From a distant room
in the woods
the owl burst down,
flung herself like a skydiver and hovered
above me. I covered my face with my arms and ran
toward her---strange---because
I was afraid.
I had disturbed the quiet
of the feathered one
who rested now, overhead, in a dead tree
where jays and flickers pecked and cried.
The owl acknowledged each note, each tiny, colored movement,
by twisting, on a calm trivet, her troubled head,
the dappled body perfectly still,
and I admit that I wanted
the creature's attention, to compete
with the smaller birds,
so I made my human noises and the owl attended,
turned her brown, comprehending eyes
down to me and met my stare.
I moved my arms---slowly---in an awkward imitation
of flight,
pawing the air like an animal awakened abruptly
or just beginning
to know the power of her wings.
I held the owl's gaze as I swayed
and wondered what she saw:
something large straining to rise
and failing. I thought of my younger sister, dead,
and I wanted her back, to show her,
as I never did in life,
how fear and longing sometimes go together,
how one small percussive surprise
in the trees can turn you
from one self to another, this one with wings.
in the woods
the owl burst down,
flung herself like a skydiver and hovered
above me. I covered my face with my arms and ran
toward her---strange---because
I was afraid.
I had disturbed the quiet
of the feathered one
who rested now, overhead, in a dead tree
where jays and flickers pecked and cried.
The owl acknowledged each note, each tiny, colored movement,
by twisting, on a calm trivet, her troubled head,
the dappled body perfectly still,
and I admit that I wanted
the creature's attention, to compete
with the smaller birds,
so I made my human noises and the owl attended,
turned her brown, comprehending eyes
down to me and met my stare.
I moved my arms---slowly---in an awkward imitation
of flight,
pawing the air like an animal awakened abruptly
or just beginning
to know the power of her wings.
I held the owl's gaze as I swayed
and wondered what she saw:
something large straining to rise
and failing. I thought of my younger sister, dead,
and I wanted her back, to show her,
as I never did in life,
how fear and longing sometimes go together,
how one small percussive surprise
in the trees can turn you
from one self to another, this one with wings.