Owl Feathers
by Rebecca Billings
I will watch only one owl,
love what it gives,
cover my shoulders in the appearing night.
In a skilled hop,
it goes to its
apple owlets
before the dark hour.
I climb
and pick its feathers,
like the moon’s eyelashes
on each bone of the yew branch.
I look down.
There is my ghost face
in the orange leaves,
a little covered hill:
a shadow of my life
I imagine there.
Take care down there,
I say,
with the thornbush and worms.
They can surely go beyond you:
the tack of your body,
the repeating days.
Don’t forget:
Open the back door of your obstinate eye
and leave regret.
Love great.
Walk the night.
Go.