I once caught an owl by lamplight
glaring deeply at me
on the forest's edge.

Coarse were the wings he clustered 
like horns and I, barefoot as a lamb
in the wet woods with moist matches.

The fires I made had broke with the season’s relays.
A distance cold with longing brought browed 
ashes to the mildew evening.

Dark, dark was this fat owl which sought me
lurking there, white as the branch I sat on, 
his bright gaze glowing a sacrifice of grace.

Wanting the fire within me, the food laid out on the brush.
Soundless
as roars in a vacuum, the wings his welcome, 

the bones like sacred stitches robing
the smooth light of the sequoias.

And then a glimpse, a gatter, an owlet scurried grounded
toward me.
pleading for the soft sustenance of soul and flesh; food.

I gathered up my frame from the foreground, 
hissed like a snake as I receded, 
denied the chick my dinner.

And, sure and solemn, the saurine owl descended,
eager in beak and eye, 
twisting limbs awry to filch the youngling’s 
dull care

and caught the fresh neck in stooped jaws.
Slow was the snapping of life, quick my eyes agravell
as I observed its portent.

It swallowed the bird in one slow, subdued gulp then
returned to its previous position.

The lamp fell in a unity of surprise, 
kindled what stood for scrub, 
and set the dark ablaze in glorious contrast

to the day’s failed fires.

I placed myself in the flames
and woke with the sky beneath me.