Owl

I was driving, just creeping really,

along a country road in winter, late in the day.

A narrow, icy strip of road,

and one house there, and one over there,

asleep in the trees.

I was the only thing moving.

Then I saw something move. I stopped

with some suspicion,

and walked a few yards back, and stopped again.

A snowy owl on a tree limb

moved it's round face

around, to look at me.

I didn't move. The flashers on the car

breathed red out over the snow

while the engine idled.

I stared at the thing until

what wind there was stilled.

Till the teeth in my head were teeth.

Till my feet were iron, and my hands were iron, and the first star twisted

into position.

Till I swear I could almost

hear--between one thing

and another, and a long way down--

the time slipping by.

I walked back to the car, and turned it around,

and crept my way home.

The wholeness, the unearthly

patience of the thing! The moment

I was gone,

I bet it lifted like nothing out of its tree.

I bet the ice on the river

groaned a long groan, then cracked

down the middle.