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.


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