I was talking to the owls again tonight.
It was like scrolling on social media—
hoo-HOO, hoo-HOO—and they liked it.
It was warmer today. The air felt more
like a friend.The creek sounded serious
and steady. I’d been inside until dusk.
I spoke with the owls, which my father
said flew off with unruly children: one
specific owl, actually: The Owl. We both
knew that wasn’t true. His mother (tiny,
superstitious, Irish) used it to scare him.
Except he knew I’d be too smart to fool.
I was. I’m still angry at my father, but
not about that. Sometimes winter lets up
just a little and I miss him: hoo-HOO,
hoo-HOO. I talk to the owls. They answer
me back, outside with night just pulling
itself together, a few stars poking through.
Editor’s Note: This poem leads the reader onto a meandering path, and it isn’t until the very end that one realizes that the heart of it is right in the center, but it’s a bit too painful to touch. One can only arrive at grief and joy and anger and memory indirectly.