Owl

In winter, we find her invisible
against the furrows
of cottonwood bark. Her swivel
and lean follow us until
we sit on the old polished log
we call creature. She blinks,
swells her feathers out, shakes and settles.

It’s a good day when I see an owl.
We watch until she drops—a fall
opening to swoop and glide. What is it
with lesbians and owls? Someone
asked. I’ll leave the question
there. There’s a world

the old trees make of water
and air. I like to feel the day
undress its cool oblivion, currents
moving the one mind of leaves,
shadows deeper with the breath
of owls. Just the chance she might
be there watching makes me
love—no—makes me loved.