Flight of the Owl

Claudia Buckholts

An owl glides silent over the farmyard,
the white underside of its wings
glinting, talons unsheathed, an ear 

of darkness bent down. Fieldmice 
scurrying in the grass heed that shadow 
beating its wings above them, and I

am conscious of the days turning, 
like bright beads on a necklace, their 
shining contiguity, each connected 

by a single thread. If my awareness 
falters, the string breaks and the beads 
scatter, their significance lost, like 

the possessions of the dead that once 
resonated, vibrant around them. 
Under the owl's house, small polished 

bones litter the grass like mementos,
and I think how all creatures yearn
to continue here in this world.